


Molly Hooper and the Flagon of Nocturnal

by Zoa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Indiana Jones, Nazis, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoa/pseuds/Zoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1940: Molly Hooper an adventurer anthropologist/pathologist/college professor at Oxford University. She travels to far away and remote places to discover and study new cultures and peoples, especially ancient ones. Her life has been full of searching dangerous places for clues to ancient cultures, but when some men in dark suits destroy her school office looking for clues to the mysterious and ancient Flagon of Nocturnal - a remnant of a daedric-worshipping culture - she is thrown into the most dangerous mission of her life. She’ll need the help of an old acquaintance (who claims to be the world’s only consulting detective) to help her prevent the world from falling under the dark influence of the flagon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaotic86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaotic86/gifts).



> Cover Art and all art for this story done by the amazing [kaotic86 ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaotic86/pseuds/kaotic86)  
> Thank you so much!

_Central America, 1940_

 

Molly wiped her damp brow with an already soaked handkerchief. The humidity of the Central American jungle made sweatiness a perpetual state of being. She sighed and took a sip from her canteen before continuing her autopsy of the dead Lacandon woman on the makeshift table. Discovering the source of the disease was proving very vexing. People were dying every single day in the Mayan village in which she and her peers were working. That, and the lack of cooperation from the living due to the terror of a murderous mummy lurking about, was making the good-will trip hell.

Of course, Molly didn’t believe for a second that there was an actual undead Mayan king striking the villagers dead. _That_ was just a superstitious explanation of the deaths. The more likely explanation was that somebody dug up something they weren’t supposed to during the excavation of Mayan ruins. In particular, there was a tomb (the origin of the mummy rumor) which could have held microbes that were released when the diggers opened it. She and another member of her Oxford party were going to investigate it.

Molly was pulled out of her thoughts by the sudden recollection of the unfortunate woman on the table. She looked down at the corpse.

“Oh, right. Sorry about that.”

 

* * *

 

“So, Dr. Hooper...” Tom Arbor, Oxford geologist, looked at her nervously as they trekked up the short jungle path to the tomb. “Is there, ah, anyone - um, is there anyone special... at home?” he asked. Molly glanced at him uncomfortably. She had been expecting this for a while now. He had been very attentive to her since their group of scientists had left England for the archaeological site.

“Well, ye-” she stopped herself. “Um, actually, no. Not anymore,” she sighed.

“Oh.” Tom looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I was only...”

“It’s alright.” Molly smiled sadly. “It was two years ago. We weren’t even engaged. I really don’t know what we were...”

There had been an understanding between her and Sherlock. More of a vague agreement than an actual romance. He hadn’t been the sort to settle down in the traditional way and neither had Molly. They had a good professional relationship. He solved crimes for Scotland Yard in back home in London and she let him examine bodies when it was murder. (She also put up with his incessant need for body parts in his own experiments.)

They found that they had mutual interests in archaeology, and when she went off to distant archaeological sites for the university, he would occasionally tag along. During one of those trips, she fell in love with him. It didn’t seem to be reciprocated, though at times, when they were on the field or leaning over a body in St. Barts’ morgue, she would catch him looking at her strangely, almost fondly. But the moment was always over as soon as their eyes met and he put his defenses up once more. He would take her out sometimes, which mostly consisted of fish and chips plus a crime scene. She didn’t mind one bit. Actually, she liked it. Sherlock’s doctor friend, John Watson, had told her these excursions were Sherlock’s way of telling her he was fond of her. It might not have been a conventional relationship (partially due to Sherlock refusing to call it a relationship at all), but Molly was content.

Then the war started, and Sherlock was sent off to the continent. His brother, Mycroft, never told her where. Only months after he left, she received news from John that Sherlock had been killed in action. Mycroft refused to tell them any more than that, so Molly and John were left to grieve without even a body to bury.

“That was two years ago,” Molly told Tom. “I didn’t want to work at Bart’s anymore, so I threw myself into my research at Oxford. These trips have helped me, in a way.”

“Helped you?”

Molly smiled ruefully. “Distracted me, I guess. But-” she bit her lip- “I think I’m ready to actually move on...”

Tom’s expression turned hopeful as she smiled at him.

“You can buy me a drink when we get back home,” she said.

“I look forward to it,” he replied happily.

It was just then that they came upon the excavation site. Their fellow anthropologists and archaeologists were milling about, either at tables excitedly poring over updated maps of the area or shouting at the diggers to be careful with any artifacts they uncovered. The workers simply rolled their eyes and continued on their way, used to how the overseers managed the digs.

Molly and Tom approached the leader of their excavation, Dr. Michael Stamford. He was in close conversation with another archaeologist about the date of burial of the recently uncovered mummy.

“That’ll help quell the rumors of a murderous mummy,” Molly quipped. Stamford stopped and grinned at her.

“Hello, Dr. Hooper! How was the autopsy today?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Find anything interesting?”

“I might have,” she said. “But I have to get into the tomb to see if I’m right.” She slid her hand into her the right pocket of her khakis and pulled out a test tube. “Need to scrape the walls.”

Stamford nodded. “Have at it then,” he said. “We’re pulling artifacts out of there right now, but I don’t think you’ll be in anyone’s way.”

Molly nodded and moved off toward the tomb. Tom stayed behind to discuss a matter with Stamford, but said he’d be right along. Molly through the bustle of the excavation site, eager to examine all the wonderful things they were picking up. Discovering more about any culture excited her and fulfilled her, though certainly not as much as pathology did. Anthropology was her second love, but she found it fit in nicely with her first degree. Plus, it allowed her to travel to places she might otherwise never have seen: the ancient Mayan tomb just down the path, or the Roman ruins in France she and Sherlock had once explored. Fondly recalling that particular adventure, Molly half-slid Molly half-slid in the cavernous entrance to the tomb.

There were small lamps hanging along the walls of the tomb, casting eerie shadows over ancient carvings depicting life and death in the Mayan culture. Molly passed her hand gingerly over the carvings as she passed through, admiring the craftsmanship of the artists who created them. A few excavators nodded to her as they moved through the tunnels, carrying out various items of archaeological importance. She turned right at a fork in the path into the recently discovered tunnel where the team thought the disease may have originated. The workers had been ordered to cease any further excavation until the mummy room had been fully investigated, so Molly was quite alone as she entered the antechamber.

It was dark and damp, and she shivered involuntarily as she clicked on her torch. Kneeling down, she pulled out the test tube and a small knife from her trouser pocket. It should only have taken a few seconds, but as she was scraping, she noticed a break in the pattern of the carvings. Most of the carvings were placed into the wall of rock, but there was a tile in the midst of the smooth stone, covered in writing. It wasn’t Mayan, either, which also surprised her. The runes were actually Viking-esque. That was impossible, though. To the best of her knowledge, the Vikings had never explored this far south.

“Let’s take a look at you,” she murmured to herself. She slid her knife between the tile and the rock, digging away at the plaster which held the tile in place. It wasn’t hard to pull off the piece of wall, and with a puff of dusty air, she had it in her hands. Turning the tile over, she frowned. She wasn’t a geologist, but the clay with which the tile was made didn’t seem to be from the area. And when she looked back to the opening she had revealed, she realized just how inorganic the entire thing was. It was as if someone had come in after the tomb was built and bored that hole, with no thought of actually making it match any of the tomb’s art. She wrinkled her nose and put the tile gingerly down on the ground beside her. She pulled her sleeves up to her forearms and reached inside the hole she had revealed. Perhaps it wasn’t the smartest idea – after all, she had no idea if there was a trap inside or some poisonous substance – but curiosity overrode her caution.

Her arms didn’t have to go far before meeting resistance. Something cold and smooth met her fingertips. She grasped the square edge of whatever it was and pulled it toward her. When she had it out of the hole, she laid it beside the tile and flashed her torch on it. The black tablet was about a foot square and an inch thick, and it gleamed in the light, black and shiny. It had the same runes on it as the tile, only in the center was a drawing of a goblet of some sort. Molly peered at it with narrow eyes and ran her fingers over its surface. It wasn’t any rock indigenous to Central American, at least not this region. She would have to ask Tom to help her identify it.

“Let’s get you out in the light,” she said, and, slipping the glass tube back into her pocket. She picked up the tile and tablet, grunting at the weight of the heavy stone.

However, when Molly emerged from the tomb and started toward her peers, she slowly stopped and bit her lip. Something – intuition, her gut, something that didn’t have a definite name – was telling her to not show it to them. She shook it off and forced herself forward, telling herself she was being foolish.

Still, as her fellow excited and puzzled archaeologists thoroughly examined the pieces she had brought out, marvelling at her story of how she had found them, Molly couldn’t help getting that same sinking feeling.

Stamford had said she could keep it until they got back to Oxford. It didn’t have much relevance to their current mission anyway, he had said. So she spent that night glaring at the tablet, determined to figure out how it got to Central America. Tom had said the rock was volcanic and, while he couldn’t be sure without a test, possibly Icelandic. The first thing to do, however, was decipher the runes, something that would have to be done back in England. There wasn’t anyone in the camp currently who could translate runes.

“Sherlock could do it,” she whispered to herself, her head resting on her folded arms as she lay on her cot and stared at the tablet. The little tile that had hidden it leaned against it, propped up on her travel trunk/makeshift night table. “He knew how read runes.” She smiled sadly. “He knew so much...”

And with that, she blew out her gas lamp and closed her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Once her test results were finalized, Molly determined that the fungus inside the tomb was indeed the culprit for the deaths in the village. After developing a cure with that knowledge, her work was done and she was called back to Oxford. Stamford let her take the tablet and tile with her, saying she should try to get it translated right away.

Arriving back in England was one of the best feelings. Despite her love of travel and adventure, there was just something comforting and relieving about setting foot back in her homeland. In addition, it was almost time for the next term at Oxford, and she had much preparation to do before taking on a new batch of students.

More importantly, however, was taking the tablet to the university’s resident expert in runes. Professor Benjamin Jordan was a stereotypical professor: short, bespeckled, always dressed in a tweed suit and a bowtie, and always excited about his work. He was a friendly man, and had the habit of offering his help to anyone he felt needed it. Molly felt a little guilty for coming to his door at such a late hour (it was nearly 10.30 at night), but she was impatient and couldn’t wait until the next morning to know what the tablet said.

“My dear, what a pleasant surprise!” Professor Jordan greeted Molly with a wide, toothy smile, dressed in his dressing gown and with a book in his hands. “I thought you were in Central America with Stamford’s group?”

“I was, Professor.” Molly smiled in return. “I just got back a little while ago, actually. I’m terribly sorry for disturbing you, but I need your help.”

Professor Jordan looked down his nose, past his wire-rimmed glasses, appraising her silently. “Anything I can do, my dear. Please come in.” He stepped aside to allow her into his little cottage. After situating themselves in his tiny parlor, he sat back in his 100-year-old armchair and folded his hands in his lap.

“What is it that you have brought me?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. Molly grinned.

“How did you know I brought something?” she asked, even as she opened her knapsack containing the (bloody heavy) tablet.

Professor Jordan chuckled and pulled his glasses off to clean them. “Miss, ahem, excuse me, _Dr._ Hooper – I shan’t ever get used to calling my students doctor, I don’t think – I have many years of studies behind me, not the least of which was studying people.”

“Of course, Professor,” Molly said, and looked at him fondly. He had been one of her favorite professors in her undergraduate days, and their interactions had blossomed into friendship when she had moved on to her Ph.D. work. “I think you’ll like this.” She tugged the knapsack down from around the tablet and placed the rectangular rock on the oak coffee table. Professor Jordan leant forward and slid his glasses back on.

“Very interesting,” he murmured. “Runes, yes, Daedric, I should think, not Viking.” He frowned and looked back to Molly. “Where did you find this?”

“In the tomb we are excavating in Central America,” she replied, and watched as his eyes widened in shock.

“How very intriguing.” He looked down at the tablet and examined it more thoroughly. “There’s no sign that it’s not genuine. Over a thousand years old.”

“Tom – um, Doctor Arbor, said that it was volcanic rock. From Iceland,” Molly supplied. She leaned forward and watched her old teacher intently. “We have no idea how or why it was in that tomb. Can you read it?”

Professor Jordan raised an eyebrow at her, playfully offended. “Of course I can,” he sniffed. “Right away something called the Cult of Nocturnal stands out. That organization seems to be what this entire thing is about. I need more time to look it over, however.” He looked at her kindly. “You look absolutely done for. Perhaps we should do this tomorrow?”

Molly couldn’t deny that she was indeed tired, but her body and her mind were having a battle over which was more powerful: her need to sleep or her desire to know what that tablet said.

“Well...” She bit her lip. “Do you think I could leave a copy of the runes with you, and you could work at your discretion?”

“Of course.” Professor Jordan smiled. “I have tracing paper and coal. I’ll just be a moment.” He returned with the needed items and proceeded to trace over the tablet carefully, making sure to get every detail.

“Thank you so much, Professor,” Molly said as she rose to leave and placed the tablet back in her knapsack. “I really do appreciate this.”

Molly left the Professor’s house feeling at ease about the tablet. Now that she was home and the information was in trusted hands, she felt silly for almost indulging her anxiety back at the Mayan camp. Not wanting to lug the heavy tablet back to her own flat, she instead walked the short path to her private office on the Oxford campus and placed the tablet in a display case. She stared at it for a moment before leaving, getting that same sinking feeling as before. But once again, she shook it off and locked her office. Stepping inside her small, but comfortable flat, she chided herself on how disorganized she had left it. After a quick clean up and an even quicker bedtime ritual, Molly fell into bed and was soon sound asleep, all thoughts of the tablet left for her waking self to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tile (Chapter 1)  
> By kaotic86


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations provided in the end notes.

_ Oxford, England, 1940 _

 

Molly was up bright and early after a deep, restful sleep. She fixed herself a breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee and ate at her leisure as she started to prepare her syllabus for the next term. Classes began the next week and Molly preferred being fully prepared to scrambling to put everything together the day before, as a few of her colleagues were wont to do. Once she was finished with breakfast, she got dressed, gathered her things into her knapsack (her lucky one, a term Sherlock had always snorted derisively at) and started off for her office. It was a bit too early to go by Professor Jordan’s, though she was itching to know what he had found out. As she walked down the street, she heard the newsboys shouting out about the current state of war the world was in, a condition Molly had almost forgotten about on her expedition to Central America. She stopped and bought a newspaper to read, catching up on the current events in France, the bombings in London. She almost wished she could have stayed in the Americas. As it was, that was the only expedition the school was going to fund. The world was too dangerous now.

 

She looked up from the paper and scanned the street. So many boys, so many of them far too young, were in uniform. It chilled her to think that it was barely 22 years that the Great War had ravaged her country. 

 

Pushing aside those memories and folding the newspaper up, she forced herself to continue down the street and resume the façade of normality everyone needed to survive. She made her way to her office and was just about to push her keys into the lock when she noticed it was slightly open. 

 

Molly slowly pressed her hand to the door and opened it fully to find three men, all of them in dark suits and hats, in her office, trying to open the display case with the tablet. They must have heard the slight creak of the door because they all turned slowly to look at her.

For a moment it was a standoff, the three men standing awkwardly in Molly’s office as Molly blinked in surprise.

 

“ _ Schnell! _ ” one of them cried and suddenly the case was broken, the tablet was gone, and Molly was pushed against her office door as the three men ran out.

 

“Oi!” she exclaimed, quickly collecting herself and rushing after them. “Stop!”

 

She chased them down the hall, past many bewildered students and faculty, out into the courtyard of the Hall of Antiquities. The three men were fast, though – Molly was frankly amazed that the one who was holding the tablet was still able to be so quick – and unfortunately also had a black sedan waiting for them on the street.  The three men slid into the car and it sped off. Molly skidded to a stop at the curb and leaned on her knees, her chest heaving as she caught her breath.

 

“Bollocks,” she hissed. “Terrific.”

 

She walked slowly back to her office, apologizing as she went to the students and faculty who had almost gotten trampled as she pursued the robbers. Halfway back one of her brown pumps kicked something small and metallic. She saw it was a pin and assumed it must have been dropped by one of the thieves. Feeling that it might be a clue that could help find them, she knelt down and picked it up. It was upside down and when she turned it over she felt chills go up her spine.

 

A swastika. The men were Nazis.

 

* * *

 

Standing in the doorway of her office, she surveyed the damage. Apparently, the three men had also felt the desire to dig through her desk and files. Papers and books littered the floor.

 

“Oh dear!” Professor Jordan suddenly appeared at her side, his eyes wide with surprise. “What happened?”

 

“They took the tablet,” Molly replied, nodding toward the broken case. She sighed and buried her face in her hands. “Why did I leave it here?”

 

“Who took the tablet?” Professor Jordan asked, unable to take his eyes off the disaster zone that was now Molly’s office.

 

“The men!” she exclaimed, dropping her hands. “Three men were in here, and they obviously tore my office apart and took the tablet! How am I going to explain this to Mike?”

 

Professor Jordan patted her shoulder gently. “Don’t worry about that now. We should notify the police.”

 

Molly took a deep breath and nodded. After the local police sent a constable to take down her report (and though she gave one, Molly didn’t have much confidence in getting the tablet back; the three men hadn’t seemed the type to stay in the area), Professor Jordan assisted her in cleaning her office. As they did, she recounted the short tale to him.

 

“Nazis?” he exhaled. “My goodness. How dreadful. Oh, how very terrible.” He added, a worried expression suddenly appearing on his face. Molly frowned and stopped refiling papers.

 

“Professor? What’s wrong?”

 

“I know why they took that tablet,” he answered.

 

“What? How?”

 

“The tracing of the tablet you left last night. I finished translating it this morning. That’s why I came over here.” He cleared his throat. “If what’s on it is true, then I am not surprised that those men wanted it. Though it’s beyond me how they could have found out about it.”

 

Molly narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to the professor. “What did it say?”

 

“It tells of a flagon with supernatural powers. The worshippers of Nocturnal – a daedric figure of a group I had to look up; there are very few stories about them – used it to raise armies of the dead. Now of course, raising the dead is absolutely impossible. But Hitler is notorious for seeking out things that might have magical attributes.”

 

Molly sat down at her desk and steepled her fingers, a habit she had picked up from Sherlock and now did every time she needed to 

 

“What did the stories say about the Nocturnal group?” she asked.

 

“They were, well, quite disturbing.” Professor Jordan replied as he sat on the corner of Molly’s desk nearest her. “They are apparently still around, and there are rumors that they perform anthropaphagic rituals as well as blood sacrifices. My dear, I think you should count yourself lucky you’re rid of that thing. I believe it’s bad news.”

 

“Was there anything else on the tablet?” 

 

Professor Jordan nodded. “There appears to be another section, because part of a sentence is cut off, but it says something about a location. Where I think France would be today.” 

 

There was silence for a moment as Molly mulled over what her friend and mentor had told her. 

 

“I have to go after it.”

 

Professor Jordan blinked. “I don’t think you heard what I said...”

 

“I heard you very clearly, Professor, and I have to go after that tablet. Did the tracing say anything else?” She had stood up and was now starting to gather things into her bag.

 

“Yes, it mentioned needing a key, but it wasn’t clear. I think there’s another tablet somewhere - I think in Europe. As I said, the runes mentioned a place that sounded very much like France. What are you doing?” Professor Jordan watched her put on her coat and slip her bag over her shoulders.

 

“I’m leaving,” she answered. “I need to go after it.”

 

“B-but what about the next term?” Professor Jordan asked. “Why do you need to go after the thing? There are Nazis involved here, my dear! We need to alert the police and the War Office and leave it to them!”

 

“I’m sure I can find a substitute for while I’m gone. The police aren’t going to be able to handle this, but...” she smiled slyly. “I do know someone at the War Office who could help. Thank you for your help, Professor.” She gave him a quick hug and hurried out of her office, leaving a worried and bewildered professor behind.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sir.”

 

Mycroft Holmes sighed heavily and opened his eyes to see his office’s dark tiled ceiling. He had been meditating on what sort of biscuit he would have for tea, as well as how to handle the prime minister’s new orders concerning the warfront, and wasn’t keen on being interrupted.

 

“What is it, Anthea?”

 

“There’s a Dr. Molly Hooper to see you, sir. She says it’s urgent.”

 

Mycroft immediately sat up and narrowed his eyes. “Molly Hooper?”

 

“ _ Dr.  _ Molly Hooper, yes,” Anthea replied, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The petite woman had been quite emphatic that Anthea use that term when telling Mycroft who was visiting because “he can’t seem to remember how to address me,” as Molly had put it.

 

“Well then, please send in the good  _ doctor _ ,” he said, an eyebrow raised imperiously.

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

Molly strode into Mycroft’s office confidently, wearing a dark blue suit and brown fedora, with her favorite brown pumps. She dressed to show him she was not a woman to be toyed with, not anymore. The Holmes’ brothers would not take advantage of her again.

 

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, glad she was able to keep her voice from shaking. It had been a long time since she had spoken to either Holmes man, and Mycroft had always intimidated her.

 

“Dr. Hooper,” he replied, standing as she entered. Anthea glanced at them, smirked, and shut the door to Mycroft’s office, leaving Molly and the elder Holmes brother alone. “How have you been?” Mycroft continued, once Molly had taken one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

 

“Very well, thank you.” Molly answered. “I would like to cut to the point, Mr. Holmes. I need your help.”

 

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his waistcoat.

 

“What can I possibly do for you, Dr. Hooper?”

 

Molly took a deep breath and told him the story of the tablet, where and how she had found it, the translation of the runes, and the men who had taken it from her office.

 

“I found this pin on the ground on the way back to my office,” she told him, digging the pin out from her bag and laying it on his desk. “I’m certain it belonged to them.”

 

Mycroft stared gravely at the swastika pin. “How could these men have known about the tablet?” he asked after a moment.

 

Molly’s lips pursed into a thin line. “I can’t be sure,” she replied slowly. “But the only way they could have found out was if someone at the dig told them. I couldn’t begin to imagine which person there, though! I would swear they were all loyal.”

 

“There is very rarely a case when a person would swear otherwise about someone they know,” Mycroft replied with a humorless smile. “I agree with your assessment. The traitor must have been at your excavation.”

 

“I was afraid so,” Molly sighed. “I leave that to you to confirm. I’m going after the tablet.”

Mycroft raised his brows in surprise. “You are? On your own?”

 

“Can you spare anyone to help me?” Molly asked, one of her own brows raised.

 

Mycroft blinked for what seemed to be a full minute, and Molly could tell he was debating something with himself.

 

“I might,” he finally answered.

 

“What?” she asked, completely taken aback. “I-I didn’t think you would take this seriously. I mean, besides the Nazi part, of course.”

 

“It is within the parameters of my job to take things like this seriously, where it concerns a certain Austrian’s quest for world domination,” Mycroft replied. “What are your requirements for a partner?”

 

Molly stared at Mycroft as she answered. “They need to be able to read thousand-year-old Norse runes and keep up with me. The latter I think some of your people can handle, but beyond Professor Jordan at Oxford, I don’t think there’s another person currently available who can do the first part. The only person I know is dead now.” She glanced away and took a breath. “Your brother was the best.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded and sat up, taking in a breath. “He  _ is _ . Miss... Dr. Hooper. I believe considering the nature of the mission you have undertaken for yourself – and other factors on which I cannot comment due to national secrecy – there is a certain thing you should be aware of… but only if you truly are willing to continue.”

 

Molly’s mouth and throat went dry, and she began to wonder if perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. She had no idea what Mycroft was about to tell her. However, it was too late to stop.

 

“Alright,” she nodded emphatically. “Tell me.”

 

“Sherlock is alive.”

 

Molly squinted at Mycroft, dumbfounded. He had to have gone off his rocker.

 

“No he’s not.” She shook her head. “ _ You _ told me he was dead.”

 

“Dr. Hooper.” Mycroft’s look and tone were ones of patronization and impatience.

 

Molly’s mouth gaped wide open and she stood up, dropping her bag on the floor. “That can’t be. Where is he?”

 

“Sherlock is currently residing in a gulag in eastern Russia,” Mycroft answered. “I can’t tell you all the details of his mission, but they have been fulfilled and I have only been waiting an appropriate opportunity to break him out. This is perfect.”  

 

“That bastard is alive and he didn’t tell me?” she whispered, enraged and only half listening to Mycroft. “He couldn’t have at least given you a note to give to me?”

 

“I told you it was a matter of-”

 

“No.” Molly slammed her hands on Mycroft’s desk, startling him. “I know your reasons. I meant something to him.  _ He _ should have told me he was alive!”

 

“Ahem. Dr. Hooper, please, if you would only take your seat again...” Mycroft glanced hopefully at the armchair she had vacated. Once she had, he continued. “I can’t explain Sherlock’s reasons for not telling you. You can have your lovers’ quarrel when you get him out of that prison.”

 

Molly’s eyes burned with determination and rage. “Tell me what I need to do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Вы посетитель, Олег.”  _ A burly guard appeared in the slat of the heavy wooden door of Sherlock’s gulag cell.

 

Sherlock raised his head slightly from his supine position on a very uncomfortable, nearly broken, mattress that was the only furniture (if one could call it even that!) in his little cell. He had been contemplating the many other forms of ash he had discovered while in the prison, cataloguing them in his mind palace when the guard appeared with such an odd message.

 

“A visitor?  _Кто?_ ” he asked. Besides Mycroft and a few select people in the War Office, no one else knew where he was, and definitely no one would care to call on him there.

 

_ “Женщина,” _ the guard replied with a shrug. “Very pretty,” he added in English, a skill Sherlock had been teaching him. “Very tiny. Seems angry. You are in trouble, I think,  _ Мой друг _ .” The guard chuckled and opened Sherlock’s cell.  __

 

Sherlock frowned and stood up. He wasn’t at all sure what Mycroft’s game was, but this wasn’t in the original plan they had discussed. Visitors weren’t usual in undercover operations, especially female visitors.

 

The guard stepped out of Sherlock’s way and led the way down the corridor to, not the viewing room, where prisoners were usually taken to see any visitors, but to the warden’s office. Sherlock knew absolutely that this had to be Mycroft’s doing, but what his brother way playing at was still a mystery.

 

When he stepped through the door into the warden’s office, he saw the warden sitting at his desk ( _ Drinking again, warden? How troublesome for your wife. Though she probably doesn’t care since she’s sleeping with your brother. _ ) and conversing with the young woman in question. She was listening politely to what the warden was slurring out, but when Sherlock entered the room, she and the warden stood up together.

 

“ _ Олег _ .” The warden stumbled over his words. “You are being freed today, thanks to this lovely woman.”

 

Sherlock kept his eyes on the woman as she turned - ready to deduce the reason she had come, ready to bring her down as the imposter she had to be. She was wearing a brown fur Cossack hat, her auburn-colored hair done in what he had to guess was the most modern style, a long blue, A-line coat that reminded him of one of his own, and practical brown boots. She was dressed very well - dressed to intimidate. He looked forward to destroying her, but his mind went blank the moment her face was revealed to him. 

 

“Molly!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> “Вы посетитель, Олег.”   
> "You have a visitor, Oleg."
> 
> "Кто?”  
> "Who?"
> 
> “Женщина.”  
> "A woman."
> 
> "Мой друг.”  
> "My friend."


	3. Chapter 3

He was alive. Even with  grimy clothes, dirty, grown-out hair and a long, disgusting beard, those eyes were unmistakable. Hearing his voice again brought tears to Molly’s eyes.

 

Anger was the emotion of the moment, though. Anger at him for faking his death, for being in such a terrible place, and renewed anger at Mycroft for pushing Sherlock into this predicament. Also, irritation that he would just blurt her name out the way he just did. Had he lost his self-control in Russia?

 

“Oleg,” Molly replied coldly, determined to remain calm as she carried out Mycroft’s ruse: her pretending to be a representative of Sherlock’s wealthy family, who was now willing to pay off his debt to the prison. She turned to the warden again. “If all the details are taken care of, I would like to leave.”

 

“Of course, of course.  _ Da _ , Oleg, your punishment has been paid off, you are free to go with Miss Collins.”

 

Molly met Sherlock’s glance as his eyes moved to hers, their blue-green hue piercing her own brown eyes, deciphering her the way only he could. He nodded in acknowledgement.

 

“Do you have anything you need to bring?” Molly asked. Sherlock shook his head in reply. “Then let’s go. Your father is very eager to see you again.” With that, she nodded imperiously at the warden and proceeded to leave the room. She didn’t need to look behind her to know that Sherlock was following.

 

It took nearly fifteen minutes to actually get outside of the gulag’s barbed wire fencing to the waiting car (provided by Mycroft). Molly swore she had held her breath the entire time. She exhaled as soon as they were at the car, leaning against it for support. Undercover work was not her favorite pastime.

 

“Well,” Sherlock smirked at her. “That was-”

 

Molly’s slap came hard and unexpected, leaving Sherlock nursing his injured cheek. He looked at her in surprise. That was not the reaction he had deduced.

 

“What was that for?” he mumbled.

 

“For dying!” Molly almost shouted. All the emotions she had felt after he had “died” had come rushing back to her, along with pure joy that he was alive. “And for not telling me you were alive!”

 

“Shouldn’t we discuss this  _ in the car _ ?” Sherlock hissed with a glance back at the gulag. “On our way out?”

 

Molly scrunched up her face, irritated. She  turned sharply and got into the car, followed quickly by Sherlock. The driver sped away from the gulag and all three occupants of the vehicle felt relieved to be away from it.

 

After a few minutes of silence, Molly cleared her throat.

 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured and glanced sheepishly at him. “I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

 

Sherlock bobbed his head. “I quite agree. I feel you should understand why I didn’t tell you. Why I had to go.”

 

“Mycroft wasn’t exactly candid about what your mission was,” Molly protested and crossed her arms, but then sighed in resignation. “But you’re right. I should. It hurt –  _ it still hurts _ – that you left like that.” she closed her eyes and bit her tongue, determined to not let any tears fall. “John was devastated. So was I.”

 

Sherlock stiffened. “I am sorry. But it had to be done.”

 

Molly shook her head. “I’m not here to stir up the past.”

 

“Ah,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I confess, I am curious as to why Mycroft sent  _ you _ .”

 

“Mycroft didn’t send me,” Molly half-smiled. “He directed me here. I came because I need your help.”

 

“Interesting. An archeological find then? A rather significant one... someone took it though. Someone dangerous... Mycroft’s involvement means it’s of geopolitical importance. Has to do with the war then.”

 

Sherlock rattled off his deductions quickly but stopped when he saw Molly grinning.

 

“Why are you smiling like that?”

 

“Because I missed you. I missed your deductions,” she answered. “Though I have to say, it’s a little odd to hear them coming from a caveman.” She laughed.

 

Sherlock allowed himself to smile and rubbed the growth on his face. “It will be a relief to become myself again.”

 

“And take a bath,” Molly chirped. “You smell terrible.”

 

“And you are much more candid than I remember,” Sherlock pouted.

 

“I learned from the best,” she retorted.

 

Sherlock grunted. “I suppose I can’t disagree. But now I want to know why you’re here.” He turned his body to face her directly. “Why do you need me?”

 

Molly slowly removed her hat and laid it on her lap.

 

“A week ago, I was in Central America on a dig. I was helping to discern the origin of an illness in the village. We were fairly certain it had come from a mummy’s tomb we had recently discovered. I went inside to gather samples of the wall, the floor, anything I could that would lead me to the answer.”

 

Sherlock nodded. Molly was a thorough scientist, more so than any man in the field he had ever met. One of the reasons he had made her his pathologist.

 

“I was scraping at one of the walls when I saw a strange tile.” Molly continued. “It had runes on it. What appeared to be Norse runes.”

 

“Norsemen? In Central America?” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes widening in surprise and intrigue.

 

“That’s the only thing that makes sense,” Molly nodded. “The tile was almost as old as the tomb itself. Naturally I had to figure out why it was there, so I started to pull it out. When I had, I found a... a hiding place. I probably shouldn’t have, but I reached inside and searched around for what might have been in there.”

 

“You could have lost your arms, Molly,” Sherlock chided.

 

“And you wouldn’t have done the same?” she challenged. Silence and a glare answered her.

 

“Anyway,” Molly continued. “I pulled out a heavy, black rock tablet, about a foot long and a foot wide with the same runes on it, only this seemed to be the main show. I took it back to the camp and showed it to everyone. A colleague of mine, Tom, said that it was volcanic. I went back to London and got Professor Jordan to translate it. He told me it said something about the ‘Flagon of Nocturnal’, something terrible, and that there was a second half, possibly in France. We need that half because I... I lost the first one.” She sighed heavily.

 

“How did you lose a giant tablet like that?” Sherlock asked, a brow raised in amusement. “Drop in the Thames by accident?”

 

“No.” She glared at him. “Some bloody Nazis stole it out of my office.”

 

“Nazis? That explains why Mycroft’s hands are in this.”

 

“Yes.” Molly nodded. “And I needed his help finding someone to help me find the second half and translate it. That’s actually where you come in,” she finished with a disarming smile.

 

Sherlock smiled back deviously. “Shall we begin?”

 

* * *

 

Molly and Sherlock were transported to an airfield where a private aeroplane awaited them, on behalf of Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother had also ensured a new wardrobe and shaving materials for Sherlock.

 

Once the plane was in the air, Sherlock headed to the back to clean up.

 

“How did he know I would need a shave?” the bearded detective had pouted.

 

Molly had rolled her eyes and sat down to wait for Sherlock to return. As she did, she pulled out the tracing of the tablet and her other notes. On the way to Russia, she had done some research on the Cult of Nocturnal. Professor Jordan had been right. They were very nasty and a group the Nazis were sure to get along with, though the only real interest she could see the Third Reich having was in raising an army of the dead. Otherwise, there didn’t seem to be any political or scientific reason to go after an alliance with the small group.

 

“Do you know you’re talking aloud?”

 

Molly jumped and turned around to see Sherlock standing over her. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him clean shaven and sporting a dashing dark blue suit with a purple collared shirt. It was an unusual color for a man’s shirt, but it fit him well. He looked almost exactly the same as he had two years before, before his ‘death’.

 

“Y-you still need a haircut.” Molly forced herself to not react to the resurgence of her attraction to him, though from the way Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth turned up, she felt she had failed miserably. She hated how he managed to read her and even more how one look at him made her knees shake and her heart race. She was an accomplished, respected woman in a field with barely any female experts, with a position at a university she had fought for and won, yet Sherlock managed to reduce her to feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

 

“I expect I can secure one of those once we land in France,” Sherlock replied and casually draped his jacket over the seat opposite Molly before seating himself.

 

“Good.” Molly took a breath and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. “Here is the tracing of the tablet Professor Jordan took. As I said, he’s already translated it, but maybe you can see something else.”

 

Sherlock gingerly took the thin tracing paper in his hands and peered at the charcoal copy of the Nordic runes. There was silence for at least ten minutes as he learned all he could from the paper and the rock from which the tracing came. Molly watched, letting herself stare at him while he was occupied and (hopefully) couldn’t notice her.

 

Having him back had made her realize she had never really gotten over him at all. If she had decided to pursue a relationship with Tom, it would have surely failed. Molly was absolutely certain now that Sherlock was the love of her life.

 

_ Damn it. _

 

“What was that?” Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to look at her.

 

Molly blushed and shook her head. “Nothing. Did you find anything?”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but nodded at her question. “Professor Jordan was on the right track when he said the rest of the tablet might be in France. There’s a geographical description here,” he said whilst pointing to a place near the bottom of the tracing, “that indicates a location somewhere in eastern France.”

 

“Anything else?” Molly frowned. “Anything more specific about where it would be? A tomb, someplace where, you know, X marks the spot?”

 

“If you’d let me finish...” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I was about to say that it also mentions a sacrificial site. It’s got a different name here, but I’m sure we could figure out the modern name easily. And really?” he gave her an exasperated look. “X marks the spot? I thought as a scientist you were beyond such clichés.”

 

Molly’s expression immediately urged Sherlock to apologize.

 

_ Well, she’s changed. _

 

Sherlock watched Molly as she looked over a map of France. Her hair was down now, the hat she had worn laying on the floor at her feet. She was certainly different, though he couldn’t quite place how. He attempted to deduce her, but was not entirely successful. She still had her cat - Toby, if he remembered right. Now that he was able to actually examine her, he noticed a few different things. Her hair was redder than when he had last seen her. Shorter, as well. It fit her. Somehow, it brought out her brown eyes even more. There were a few more scars on her hands, probably from slips of an unsharpened scalpel made in the field. In a laboratory, Dr. Molly Hooper was as steady as anyone could be. She had to be. A woman did not get to the position Molly had without hard work and a strong constitution. Sherlock had never understood Oxford’s hesitation of allowing a woman into its Anthropology department, especially when Molly had already proven herself an excellent pathologist. But however hard they fought her efforts, she pushed right back. He remembered. It was long before they were what Molly termed as ‘friends,’ but what she had managed to accomplish in both of her chosen fields had deemed her extraordinary to him.

 

He thought back to their so-called relationship, titled so only by John. Molly had been sure to keep away from such labels, which Sherlock appreciated. He remembered how lively and excited she had been to accompany him on cases, how intelligently she would be able deduce, and when she began to go out on digs, how happy she had been to have him alongside her, eager to show him her world beyond the morgue. Those were good days, and he found he missed them. Missed her.

 

* * *

 

They landed at an airport outside of Paris three days later, after a brief layover in Latvia, where Sherlock finally got a proper haircut. Molly appreciated how the barber had forgone the usual close-cut style that was popular for men and left it a little longer, leaving the curls to bounce across Sherlock’s forehead. It didn’t matter to him, but Molly felt it fit him better.

 

Mycroft had provided them a car at the airport in France to take them into the city. There, Sherlock had a contact who could possibly assist them in locating the second half of the tablet. He refused to name the person though, insistent that it was for all of their safety. Molly thought he simply liked being mysterious and finally had an appreciative audience. Two years in a Russian gulag with men who lacked patience for that sort of thing would have put a damper on Sherlock’s more theatrical side, she supposed. In any case, the circumstances of Sherlock’s contact gave Molly the ability to dress up (something she hadn’t been able to do for some time), for apparently they ran a nightclub in Paris.

 

“It’s tedious,” Sherlock sighed to her through the wall separating their rooms. He was straightening his bowtie, a fashion he absolutely detested. “But my contact is quite insistent that everyone who visits their establishment dresses formally. We don’t want to stand out.”

 

“I think it’s nice!” Molly chirped from her room. Mycroft, in all his wisdom and magical geopolitical abilities, had managed to ensure she had a full wardrobe, formalwear – and even a little jewelry – for her use. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to do this.” 

 

Even if Paris was war-torn, the people were resilient and didn’t let it dampen their spirits. Though some guilt did manage to slip into Molly’s feelings. It felt wrong to go to a party, even if it was fighting against the Nazis in the grand scheme of things. She sighed and pushed those thoughts away. It wouldn’t do any good to wallow in guilt. She gave her makeup one last check, placed a stray hair back in place, and grabbed her black clutch, which matched her simple, yet elegant evening gown perfectly. The dress had a long, flowing white A-line skirt and a short-sleeved black top with a sweetheart neckline; black vine-like tendrils extended a few inches into the skirt. It was not unlike something a fairy might wear. She had to give Mycroft credit (or perhaps Anthea) for knowing exactly what she would like.

 

“Sherlock?” she called, standing and going to the doorway between their rooms. “Are you ready?”

 

“Yes, I’m bloody ready,” Sherlock mumbled on his way to meet her. He stopped mid-stride and 

tilted his head slightly when he caught sight of her, as if he had been struck by something. 

 

Molly frowned and took a tentative step forward.

 

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” she asked in concern.

 

He blinked and then violently shook his head. “No. Nothing. Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

Molly crossed her arms and huffed. “You’re the one who stopped and looked at me like an idiot. Let me at that tie. You didn’t do it right at all.” She moved forward and reached up to fix the lopsided mess he had made of his tie. Sherlock stood still as she worked, her nose scrunched up in concentration.

 

“Molly.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Do you...” he cleared his throat, throwing Molly off. She started over with an exasperated sigh. “Sorry,” he continued. “Do you remember when I took you on cases with me?”

 

Her eyes flicked up to his briefly. “Yes. I remember.”

 

“Did you like that?” he asked quietly. His eyes never left her face, watching her intently.

 

“Yes, I did,” she replied, just as softly.

 

“Would you like to go back to that someday?”

 

Molly finished with his tie and her hands slowly drifted down the lapels of his jacket, her eyes purposely downcast. “I don’t know if we can.”

 

“You didn’t answer my question, Dr. Hooper.” Sherlock’s tone was sharp, causing Molly to scowl up at him.

 

“Yes,” she snapped back. “That do it?”

 

Sherlock grunted and gave a curt nod before grabbing her hand and moving toward the door. Molly had just enough time to grab her silk stole before she found herself in the lift of their hotel. Sometimes, she thought she had Sherlock Holmes figured out, but he always managed to sweep her off her feet.

 

* * *

 

The bar’s atmosphere matched that of the district in which it was located: seedy and probably dangerous to be in alone. But that wasn’t what had Molly tense with nerves and trepidation. She wasn’t particularly prone to that sort of thing anymore, not since Sherlock’s ‘death’. No, what had her hands shaking were the twenty-some uniformed Nazi officers who drifted around the bar. She was just realizing how close to the war front she actually was and stayed close to Sherlock.

Her nervousness must have been palpable because while walking into the Nazi-filled crowd of bar patrons, Sherlock pulled her arm through his and rested his hand over hers. Molly looked up at him with wide eyes.

 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered.  

 

“It’s another adventure, Molly. Of course you can.” He winked cheekily, which elicited a smile from Molly.

 

“Thank you,” she replied. “You’re...” Molly’s voice trailed away when she noticed Sherlock was no longer paying attention. Instead. his eyes were focused on a point at the other end of the bar. At that point was a tall, raven-haired woman with the reddest lips and most gorgeous physique Molly had ever seen. The forest green satin gown the woman was in fit her perfectly, like the elbow-length black gloves she wore on her arms. Molly glanced from Sherlock to the woman and the realization dawned that he knew her. Intimately.

 

“Is she...um, is she your contact?” Molly asked, and wondered why she felt a little sick all of the sudden.

 

Sherlock didn’t even look down at her as he answered with a nod.

 

“Who is she?”

 

“An expert information broker, professional manipulator, and con woman extraordinaire. Irene Adler.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chercher la Femme (Chapter 3)  
> By kaotic86


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting at a table with Irene Adler didn’t make Molly feel much better about being in the bar. The woman was being flirtatious with Sherlock. This not only disturbed Molly but also garnered jealous looks from the Nazis in the place, attention Molly could have done without.

 

“It’s really been too long, Sherlock,” Irene purred, touching his arm. Molly rolled her eyes. “Have you come to finally have dinner with me?”

 

“No,” he said firmly. “I need information.”

 

Irene leaned back in her seat and smirked. “I feel like I’m being used, darling. You shouldn’t play with a girl’s feelings like that. Haven’t ever heard of a woman’s scorn?”

 

Sherlock’s brows went up. “You’re not prone to threats, Irene.”

 

“These are dangerous times, Sherlock,” she replied seriously. “What is it that you want?”

 

Throughout this exchange and their initial meeting with Irene, Molly had virtually been ignored by both the woman and Sherlock. Times like this were why Molly had decided to move on from him.

 

“Perhaps we could go somewhere more private?” Sherlock suggested, swiftly glancing around the room. “It’s a bit... crowded.”

 

Irene sighed and stood. “Come back to my office.”

 

Molly and Sherlock followed Irene through the bar to a door hidden behind a red curtain. She ushered them through it and closed it even before the curtain had fallen back into place. After a brief walk down a hallway, Irene opened another door into a room furnished with dark, rich wooden furniture and green wallpaper. Molly thought it was a bit too dark, but one couldn’t account for personal taste.

 

There was a large desk with a dark mahogany chair. Irene sat at the chair and gestured that Molly and Sherlock should take the two matching chairs on the opposite side of the desk.

 

“Tell me Sherlock. I know I can count on you being concise.”

 

Sherlock proved her correct and went bluntly into Molly and his mission. “We’re looking for two sides of a tablet, probably together now, with Nordic runes. We have reason to believe the Nazis may have it.”

 

Irene’s expression was unreadable (at least to Molly) for a moment before she spoke again.

 

“I’ve heard from the men who come into the bar that something big came to Reims within the last couple of days,” she said. “They’re all rather excited about it. Said it was some sort of magical rock that could change the tide of the war. At least, that’s what I think they said. It was difficult to hear with them gagged and all.” She smiled devilishly.

 

Molly didn’t think herself a prude, but she did enjoy her privacy, so Irene’s candor was something of a shock. She blushed and looked down at her hands.

 

Sherlock didn’t seem bothered at all by Irene’s bluntness. He tilted his head to the side quizzically for another reason. “No strings attached, Woman?”

 

“Why? Do you want some?” she countered with a wink. Molly refrained from rolling her eyes again. Irene’s incessant flirting was grating on her nerves.

 

“Yes, well, if that’s all you have for us, we’ll be leaving now,” Molly stood up.

 

“The little mouse speaks,” Irene smiled, amused. “I thought you were simply one of Sherlock’s usuals.”

 

“Sherlock’s what?” Molly turned to Sherlock with a raised brow. His face was blank.

 

“Oops,” Irene hummed. “Did I say too much?”

 

“Thank you for the information Irene,” Sherlock stood up and stalked toward the door.

 

“Dear.” Irene’s voice came softly, too low for Sherlock to hear.

 

Molly turned to Irene before following Sherlock. “What is it?” she asked, frowning. What could this woman possibly need to tell her and not Sherlock?

 

“Don’t fall in love with him.”

 

Molly flushed and shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Oh,” Irene’s face lit up with understanding. “He already has. In that case, run. When you can, run from him. He’s nothing but heartbreak.”

 

Molly smiled tightly at Irene as she responded. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

_ “Professor, I would like to know why I earned a low grade for your class!” Molly stomped into her Pathology I professor’s class. His secretary stood helplessly behind the irate student. _

 

_ “Miss Hooper,” the professor cleared his throat, irritatingly calm as he turned to face his student. “I thought you might come in.” He gestured toward a chair. “Please sit down.” _

 

_ Molly waved her latest paper in his face instead. “You KNOW I deserve an A! Every project I did, you gave me an excellent grade! I was in class every day!” _

 

_ The professor took a deep breath and sat down at his desk and folded his hands. “You are a very intelligent young lady, Miss Hooper, there is no doubt of that. However, I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the real world of pathology. The classes are only going to get harder, the work more disturbing. You have natural, wonderful sensibilities that I think will leave you unable to perform properly as a pathologist.” _

 

_ “What?” Molly stood there, bewildered. “What did you just say?” _

 

_ “I am not against you, Miss Hooper, please believe me!” _

 

_ “No, you just gave me a bad grade for being a woman!” Molly snapped. “I am far more capable - far more able - to ‘properly perform’ than any one of the male morons you gave a passing grade! Let’s see Charlie Evans, who fainted at the site of a dissected penis, ‘perform properly’ in the ‘real world of pathology’! Professor, you’re a bastard!” _

 

_ With that the young Molly strode out of the office, determined to fight harder for what she knew was rightfully hers. _

 

* * *

 

Molly and Sherlock returned late to their hotel, both of them exhausted from having to sift through the sea of deplorable men in Irene Adler’s bar.

 

“I just want to shower and get them off me,” Molly shivered. “I thought I would die from the smell alone. Honestly, do none of them ever bathe?”

 

Sherlock toed his shoes off and threw his evening jacket onto the floor. “I don’t think Nazis care for hygiene,” he muttered and threw himself into an armchair, loosening his tie as he went down.

Molly crossed her arms and watched him in amusement. “I suppose not.” She slipped her own shoes off and placed them neatly in the closet, where she also hung up her silk stole. “Are you spending the night in here?”

 

Sherlock raised his head lazily. “Pardon?”

 

Molly gestured to his trail of clothes. “I assume you undressing was a sign that you intended to sleep here.”

 

Sherlock looked about guiltily and slowly stood. “No...?”

 

Molly turned toward him from putting down her bag. “If you want to switch rooms with me, Sherlock, I don’t mind.”

 

“No, not at all.” Sherlock stood and picked up his things. “Ah, sorry.”

 

Molly smiled. “It’s alright Sherlock. No harm done. But I would like to get some sleep.” She followed him to her door. “We’re going to have quite an eventful day tomorrow. We have to sneak into a Nazi-occupied town full of nothing but Nazi soldiers.”

 

“Indeed.” He lingered in the doorway and Molly wondered what more he had to say. “Molly, it’s... it’s been pleasant. Doing things with you again.”

 

Molly smiled. “Do I hear an expression of sentiment, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “You might, Dr. Hooper. I have found over the last two years that expressing sentiment toward those one finds special can be beneficial. I... I regret having not been more... ah, expressive, before my sojourn. Especially to you.”

 

Molly’s heart nearly flipped in her chest when his blue eyes met hers. The look was more tender than any he had ever given her and sent a warm feeling through her body. It was a moment in which she didn’t know what to say, or if she should say anything. He was smiling at her – probably reading every tiny change in her body, the perceptive git. Even thinking that didn’t ruin the mesmerizing moment. He was so close to her now, almost chest to chest. When had that happened? Molly could smell the tobacco and alcohol from the bar which lingered on his shirt.

 

She placed her hands on his chest, intending to push him back a step, this was all too much too soon, she didn’t even know if she wanted to recreate anything they had before, but instead she allowed him to position his hands on her back and he drew her closer. His jacket and shoes fell to the carpeted floor with a gentle thud. Her breath caught in her throat when his head lowered and his lips brushed over her forehead. His lips moved down toward hers, but she lowered her head. She wasn’t ready for this. 

 

“Molly?” His voice was a low, breathless rumble, one which made Molly shiver. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing, I… I’m tired is all.” She murmured back, a lie. “Sorry.”

 

His expression read disappointment and even a little hurt, something which surprised Molly, but he simply nodded in reply and picked up his clothes.

 

Molly managed to smile softly at him as he left. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

“Goodnight, Molly.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t easy finding transportation to Reims. No train that went there took any civilians (if it did, they probably still wouldn’t have gone), and neither were there any flights. Finally, Molly called upon an archaeologist friend of hers who lived just outside of Paris, one with a jeep they could borrow.

 

The journey took two hours, two hours full of desolate, decimated landscape. Sherlock and Molly glanced at each other when they passed through an entire village that had been bombed out, utterly destroyed. Both hoped the war that had done this to France, and to their home of England, would soon be over.

 

Sherlock stopped the car five kilometers away from Reims. If they were much closer, they would have been noticed by the Nazi lookout posts. Molly grabbed her military grade binoculars (a gift from Sherlock early on in their previous relationship) and scoped out Reims.

 

“Yeah,” she sighed. “They definitely have lookout towers. Crude, but we should be wary. They most likely have snipers.”

 

“You think they expected us?” Sherlock asked wryly, taking the binoculars and looking through them. “Still kept these, I see.”

 

Molly smirked. “They were the best thing you ever gave me,” she said, to which Sherlock huffed indignantly.

 

“Perhaps it would be safer if we tried to get in there at night,” he said instead. He watched as the Nazi guards changed shifts and noted the time. “It will be easiest when they switch shifts.”

 

“Probably,” Molly nodded and leaned against the jeep. “I don’t think the problem will be sneaking in. It will be finding the tablet and getting back out.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

The two hopped back into the jeep and traveled back to the bombed out village to wait for nightfall.

 

* * *

 

Reims was sea of light in the dark, a dangerous oasis in the desert of night. Molly and Sherlock knew they had to be careful as they moved closer to the town. They weren’t dressed in completely dark clothing, but having had no idea what the surroundings would be like, their trousers and brown jackets would have to be enough.

 

Though the Nazis had small towers on which their snipers and lookouts were stationed, there was nothing greater than a flashlight around them. The problem with being seen would be when Molly and Sherlock finally got inside the perimeter. Staying as low as possible to the ground, the pair found a bushy area to await the changing of the guard. A shouted greeting and laughter alerted them to circumstance. With the guards distracted Molly and Sherlock hurried forward as quietly as they could, barely making it into a gap between two houses before the patrol moved past their location.

 

“That was close,” Molly breathed.

 

Sherlock nodded in response. “We need to make sure we stay in the shadows,” he whispered.

 

“Or...” Molly pointed her chin toward a pair of Nazi officers just at the edge of their hiding place. A woman and man, approximately Sherlock and Molly’s sizes.

 

Sherlock smiled deviously. A small distraction and quiet tussle later, Molly and Sherlock emerged from the shadows dressed in Nazi uniforms.

 

“Mine itches,” Sherlock complained quietly, rolling his shoulders and scratching at his chest. “This bastard has lice in his coat!”

 

“Shhh!” Molly hissed. “If you’re going to complain, do it in German. I don’t feel like dying tonight because you’re a little uncomfortable. We have to find the tablet!”

 

They were walking openly through the town, doing their best to not be noticeable. Molly searched around with her eyes and tried to deduce which building would most likely house her tablet. She was growing frustrated and agitated when Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her toward a large, two-story house. It had two guards at the bottom of its front stoop, armed with weapons and dogs. Two more at the back could be seen by the glow of their flashlights.

 

“There,” he whispered. “The commander’s quarters. If the tablet is really here, it’s in there.”

 

“But-” Molly was about to ask how in the world they were to get into the building when a truck came rolling down the street, full of men who were obviously prisoners. She and Sherlock moved off the street and watched it go by. The men aboard glared at all the Nazis they saw, including the imposters. As it went by, however, Sherlock nearly choked and he grabbed Molly’s forearm in a tight grip.

 

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed, then hushed herself and followed his gaze. The truck was further down the street, but she could still make out the blond, rigid, profile of Sherlock’s best friend. She gasped in shock. The last she’d heard, John was indeed in France, but she hadn’t any idea he was near enemy territory.

 

Sherlock immediately set off after the truck and Molly had to run to catch up and stop him.

 

“Sherlock, stop!” She grabbed his arm only to have her hand shaken off. She reached forward again and managed to step in front of him. He pushed into her, his hands on her arms like vices. She ignored the pain and tried to talk some sense into the man.

 

“Sherlock, look me,” she hissed angrily. “Look at me!”

 

Sherlock slowly turned his head and met her eyes. His were burning with anger and determination. Molly understood. She knew she must have had a similar look in her eyes when she found out Sherlock was alive.

 

“We have to save him,” he whispered hoarsely. “He’s my friend.”

 

“I know. But you running after the truck like that is not the way to go about it. Look, there are some men coming over here. We have to get somewhere else.” Molly cursed under her breath as she realized that the tablet would have to wait. She knew that rescuing John was more important, but it was incredibly frustrating.

 

The two moved quickly away from the Nazis moving toward them, managing to find a dark, quiet area near what must have been the lavatory. They leaned against the wall of the small building and Molly took deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

 

“I didn’t think,” Sherlock suddenly said. “I put us in danger. I’m sorry.”

 

“Yes,” Molly nodded slowly. “But I understand. It’s John. He’s my friend too.” She stood up and planted herself in front of Sherlock, hoping her expression was one of reassurance and not terror. “We’ll rescue him  _ and  _ get the tablet. Somehow.”

 

Sherlock looked at her as if in awe. “Thank you,” he said, then added seriously, 

“However, we must get the tablet first. The prison truck coming through is actually the perfect distraction. The commander is most likely going to go check on the newcomers. The house will be guarded still, but we’ll have a better chance with him gone. Besides, if we tried to rescue John first, he would be a nuisance and probably punch me.”

 

Molly managed to smile at that. “Then let’s hurry. I can’t wait to see this reunion.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood up straight and followed her back to the main road. The night was going to be more eventful than either one had thought.

 

* * *

 

The building that Sherlock believed the tablet was in was indeed somewhat deserted. Molly was glad to know that Sherlock’s deductive skills hadn’t atrophied in the Russian gulag. There were still two guards in the front, but the ones at the back were at the street watching the truck unload its cargo of prisoners. Molly and Sherlock moved slowly and casually toward the back. They hoped there was a window Molly could get through. Once she was inside, she could open the back door and let in Sherlock. It didn’t go exactly as planned, but Molly still found a way in by falling through an open cellar door.

 

“These fellows are rather sloppy, aren’t they?” Sherlock mused after having assisted Molly to her feet again. “Leaving something like this open.”

 

“Yes, sloppy. That’s the  _ exact _ word for it!” Molly replied grumpily as she brushed dirt off her jacket and shirt. “I’m going to have a bruise on my hip for a week!”

 

“If it’s any consolation, I won’t mind,” Sherlock said cheekily.

 

“Let’s just get upstairs.” Molly rolled her eyes and made her way to the other side of the cellar, where stairs led to a second cellar door located in the house’s kitchen. Very slowly lifting the door, Molly and Sherlock peeked into the house. No one appeared to be in the kitchen, so they fully emerged from the cellar.

 

“Where do we start?” she asked.

 

“Upstairs,” Sherlock replied. “If there are valuables, they would be in the commander’s office. Which is upstairs.”

 

“How do you know that?” Molly questioned as she followed Sherlock quietly through the house.

 

“The commander is a short-tempered man with trust issues, he would want to have as much control as possible. He would find a room for valuables that was hard to reach and easily blocked. The second story of a house would seem ideal.” He leapt up the stairs, abandoning silence altogether as Molly followed quickly behind. She decided to refrain from asking how he knew about the commander’s temper.

 

Sherlock stopped abruptly at the stop of the stairs and twirled around on his feet, looking a little frantic as he deduced which room was the commander’s office. Molly came to a stop beside him and huffed in frustration.

 

“Just open all the doors!” she hissed and grabbed the first door’s knob, which was directly facing the stairs. It opened and revealed an office, but not the one they sought. Molly closed the door and went to the next, while Sherlock moved down the hall. There were five doors in all, and the first four were empty of their quarry. They both converged on the fifth. They glanced at each other and Molly put her hand on the knob, twisting it slowly. It didn’t open.

 

“Think we found it.” Sherlock grinned. Molly immediately sank to her knees in front of the door. 

 

Sherlock frowned down at her in confusion. "What are you doing?” he asked, but his question was quickly answered when Molly out a lock pick from her pocket. “Molly Hooper. Did you become a thief in my absence?” His teasing tone made her smile.

 

“I was actually learning how to do this before your untimely demise,” she replied absently, concentrating on the lock. “I wanted to beat your time.”

 

Sherlock snorted arrogantly. “Molly, no one-”

 

There was a subtle click and a triumphant Molly rose to her feet.

 

“Got it.” Molly checked her watch and grinned proudly. “Thirty seconds. Billy would be proud.”

 

“Billy?” Sherlock gawked. “He taught you how?” But Molly didn’t answer. She was already inside the commander’s richly decorated office looking for the tablet.

 

“Where is it?” she worried her bottom lip as she streaked from one end of the room to the next, opening a closet and then all the cabinets. Sherlock strode in and stood in the center of the room, a puzzled expression on his face. “Where’s my tablet?” Molly stopped and looked at Sherlock, panicked.

 

“ _ Hallo. Wie sind Sie, meine Bekannte? _ ” A smug voice floated to Molly and Sherlock from the doorway. Both stiffened and turned slowly to face the owner of the voice, the man to whom they could only assume the office they stood in belonged. The commander of the camp, along with five storm-troopers, all holding weapons aimed at Molly and Sherlock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> “Hallo. Wie sind Sie, meine Bekannte?”   
> "Hello. How are you, my friends?"


	5. Chapter 5

The commander sauntered into the room, slowly taking off his black leather gloves. His coat hung loosely on his shoulders.

 

“ _S_ _prechen Sie Deutsch?_ _Nein?_ Very well. I will speak in your tongue,” he said as he stopped before his silent visitors. “My name is Helmut Graf. You may call me commandant, or commander. I know you English do not take change very well.”

 

“Your English is very good, commander,” Molly spat. “Cambridge?”

 

“St. Andrew’s, actually.” He smiled politely, but underneath the smile Sherlock could see him grasping for control. His deduction about the man’s temper seemed to be correct, unfortunately.  

 

“And thank you, Dr. Hooper. You are as British as could be, aren’t you.”

 

Molly gasped in surprise and Sherlock scowled. Commander Graf raised a brow at them in bemusement.

 

“You are surprised I know you? I will be sure to send compliments to Ms. Adler, then. She was so worried you two knew she was spying for me.”

 

Molly cursed Irene Adler in her head. She knew that woman couldn’t be trusted. She glanced at Sherlock and hoped he could see how outraged she was. He didn’t look at her, only watched the Nazi commander as he moved to stand behind his desk.

 

“Yes, she was mine all along. But do not think I know of you, both of you,” he glanced up and met Sherlock’s blue eyes with steely black ones. “It is good to know, by the way, that such a mind as yours, Sherlock Holmes, still survives. Anyway, I know of you both from your reputations. You are world renowned.”

 

“I suppose that’s nice to know,” Sherlock remarked casually. Molly wondered how he managed to keep a calm demeanor under their current circumstances. She was absolutely boiling with rage and was definitely afraid. “But we don’t really have time to chat. We’re looking for something, you see.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Graf nodded and smiled slightly. “The Tablet of Nocturnal. That’s what it’s called, you know.” Molly and Sherlock heard a click as Graf pressed a button on his desk, and out popped a hidden door. He reached inside and, with a huff and loud thud, placed the tablet on his desk.

Molly looked at the black rock, and her heart began to race. It was so close. She took a slight step forward but felt Sherlock place a hand on her arm. She glanced up at him and saw the almost imperceptible shake of his head.

 

_ Don’t be rash, Molly. _

 

Graf chuckled as he watched. “No, Dr. Hooper. You’ve failed. There will be no stopping the Führer’s plans.” He nodded at his men and they started forward, two each grabbing hold of Molly and Sherlock. Molly struggled out of their grasp and glared at Graf.

 

“I will get the tablet back, Graf. You won’t win.”

 

* * *

 

The former Reims city prison had now turned into a nightmarish prisoner-of-war jail. One side was completely filled with too many men and some women; people who were part of the resistance against the Third Reich. Sherlock and Molly were thrown unceremoniously into a cell together, the door slammed shut on them. They heard a loud pop and a painful shout followed by laughter moments later.

 

“I don’t normally hate people,” Molly whispered hoarsely. “But I hate, with all of my being, these Nazi bastards.”

 

“Molly?”

 

The other two people in the room slowly turned around to face the voice that came to them from the back of the dark cell. Molly started forward immediately when she saw her old friend, but Sherlock stayed at the door, stiff.

 

Molly wrapped her arms around John and hugged him tightly. “John! I’m so glad to see you’re alive! You’ve no idea how worried Mary has been!” She pulled back and managed to smile.

John looked at Molly’s face in awe. His hands cupped her cheeks, disbelief and hope in his eyes as he stared into hers.  

 

“Molly. How is Mary? Is she alright? What about the baby? But wait... what in the world are you doing here? And why are you dressed like one of them?” he dropped his hands to gesture at the stolen Nazi uniform.

 

“Mary and the baby are fine. Healthy and waiting eagerly for you to come home! And well, um,” Molly sighed. “Mine’s a bit of a long story. We’re here trying to get back an artifact the Nazis stole from me.”

 

“We?” John glanced up and noticed Sherlock’s still form. “Who’s we?” he asked, his voice harsh with distrust and suspicion.

 

“John,” Molly stepped away from the army doctor and toward Sherlock, putting a hand on the latter’s arm. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

 

“Who is it, Molly?” John started forward as well, his fists clenched, his body ready to react to danger. Molly could see fear and the desire to survive in every motion of his body. The man had been through a lot since coming to France and joining the front lines. Even though she was a friend, he still didn’t fully trust her, not after what he had been through. Her heart ached for him.

 

“A friend, John,” she spoke gently. “An old friend.”

 

“Come now, Molly, you’re not speaking to parliament.” Sherlock spoke and turned suddenly to face a shocked and suddenly frozen John. “Good to see you again, John. You, ah, I can’t say you look well. Is that a caterpillar on your face?” There was a smile growing on Sherlock’s face. “Is it supposed to be a mustache?”

 

John shook his head violently and blinked, his head tilted to one side. “No. No. You complete bastard!” And in a flash Sherlock was on the floor, clutching his jaw as John stood over his prone body, cradling his hand against his chest. Molly looked between them, shocked at the swiftness with which the scene had occurred.

 

“You utter prick! You sodding...” John went on with his list of expletives while Molly looked on silently, not knowing how to handle the situation besides letting it play out (it wasn’t like they were going anywhere in a hurry anyway), while Sherlock faced the barrage of insults. He was on his feet again, and while it was slightly comedic to see the shorter John Watson shout at Sherlock, Molly would have preferred the entire thing be over. She thought it might be when Sherlock began to speak, but John shut him down quickly.

 

“I’m not done!” John’s eyes blazed with anger and hurt. “How could you do that? To me? To Mary? To Molly! Do you know how much you meant to her? You lying..!”

 

“John!” Molly had finally had enough. “He’s alive! Yes, he lied, yes he deserves every single word you’re saying, but now is not the time!”

 

Sherlock had stood almost meekly before his friend, but now cleared his throat to speak. John gave him a dangerous look but didn’t try to stop him.

 

“I, um, I realize that you’re angry, John, and you have a right to be. I only want to say that I’m... I’m sorry. I’m sorry for treating you abominably during our friendship and for lying to you about my death. I can only hope that one day you’ll understand the necessity of why I did what I did.” He spoke clearly but quickly and looked to Molly afterward, his eyes asking, “Was that alright?” She nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. They both waiting, a little nervous, for John to respond.

 

The man gave a deep, weary sigh. At first the other two thought that was the end, but then John wrapped his arms around his old friend and was hugging him. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, so he simply stood there and gave John an awkward pat on the back.

 

“I’m still angry at you, you nasty bugger,” John said, obviously still cross. “But I’ll save beating you to death until we get home.”

 

Sherlock smiled and nodded. “Thank you. I would prefer dying in my own home this time.”

 

“Too soon,” John replied, then looked to Molly. “Alright. What’s going on?”

 

“Like I said, it’s a long story...”

 

John looked around their cell. “I think we’ve got time.”

 

Molly went into quick exposition of their journey so far, with Sherlock interrupting at times to correct her on a few facts. Afterward, John took a moment to soak in the information.

 

“So, this tablet thing is a magical, death control rock that Hitler wants to raise an undead army, and you two are trying to stop him?” John looked between his friends, who both nodded yes. “Bloody hell.” He ran a hand through his short, blond hair. “You two are insane.”

 

“Probably, yes.” Molly nodded again. “But you can also see how it’s imperative we get out of this prison and take the tablet back. Regardless if the thing actually works, Hitler wants it and it would be a blow to him if we got it back.”

 

“Alright. But how are you planning on getting out of here?” John asked. “The guards aren’t exactly bribable.”

 

“I’ll figure something out,” Sherlock replied confidently.

 

“You?” Molly raised a brow. “Wasn’t I the one who got you out of a Russian gulag?”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips in slight annoyance. “Yes, but I could have easily escaped that place if I had wanted to.”

 

“Uh huh.” Molly suppressed her smile. “Then get thinking, Sherlock. I would like to get back home in time for Christmas.”

 

* * *

 

The three of them were in the cell until early the next morning before anything new occurred. Graf himself came to visit them, a smug and sickeningly friendly expression on his face as he peered at them through the bars of the cell door.

 

“How are my friends today?” he asked. “Dr. Hooper, how are you doing?”

 

The three prisoners looked between themselves, unsure as to why Graf was singling out Molly. 

 

She took a step forward, a frown on her face.

 

“I’m fine, thank you. Still planning on getting the tablet back,” she replied.

 

Graf’s eyebrows went up in delight. “It is so nice to see you still have your spirit. I hope it survives the Führer’s camps.”

 

Molly felt chills run up her spine. She had heard stories, rumors really, about what Hitler did with his prisoners.

 

“What are you talking about?” She heard Sherlock bark out impatiently. Of course. He had been stuck in Russia and had no idea what sort of things had been going on with the rest of the world.

 

Graf chuckled. “Poor Holmes. One forgets you were dead for so long. No matter. You will find out my meaning soon enough. There is a train in a few hours that will take you away from France and your world forever. Enjoy this comfortable cell while you can.” He then turned and left abruptly.

 

Molly slid down the wall of the cell and sighed heavily. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said, though her tone betrayed her despair. John ran a hand through his short hair and paced the room. Sherlock stood by the door, his eyes closed. Both of his friends knew what that meant and stayed silent. Sherlock needed some time in his mind palace. They both prayed that he would figure out a way to escape while he was in there.

 

* * *

 

Molly jerked awake to the sound of a loud boom outside of their cell. It was dark and she looked around to find Sherlock before realizing he was sitting beside her. Actually, her head had been cushioned on his lap, but she hadn’t time to fully appreciate this before the friends in the cell heard another boom. That brought John out of sleep across the other side of the room. They all stood slowly. Shouting and gunfire rang out in the street of Reims. Something was happening.

 

“Friendly fire?” John whispered excitedly.

 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and smiled. “I do believe we might be saved. Very good. Because I really don’t think my plan would have worked.”

 

“Shh!” Molly hissed and hurried to the cell door. She peered out and saw the guards drop their weapons and rush out the back door. The other prisoners whooped and called derogatory names after them. Molly looked about and noticed that one of the guards had very nicely left the keys only a few feet from their cell. “Does anyone have a stick or something?” she asked.

 

Sherlock and John joined her at the cell and when they saw the keys they both tried to grab them.

 

“What are you doing?” Molly asked, having to shout over the sound of another shot of what had to be a tank. “You can’t possibly reach them from here!”

 

“John, do stop it!” Sherlock exclaimed. “You’re getting in the way!”

 

Molly rolled her eyes and paced around the cell, thinking about what she could use to pull the keys into reach. Put her hands on her hips and at that moment realized she was wearing a belt over her “borrowed” Nazi uniform jacket. She grinned and pulled it off quickly, tying one end off in a loop.

 

“Move over,” she nudged Sherlock aside and knelt on the floor. Closing one eye and aiming carefully, Molly swung the belt and managed to catch the keys just right on her first try. With a triumphant ‘hallo’ she jerked the belt back quickly and grasped the keys in her hand. Sherlock quickly took them and unlocked the cell door.

 

“Very nice, Molly,” he commended.

 

“Bloody brilliant, you mean,” John corrected with a grin. The cacophony outside had grown louder and louder, until they really did have to shout every word they said.

 

“We need to let the others out!” Molly exclaimed. “Hurry!” The prison building sounded like it was going to break apart at any moment, and she was certain the back rooms were on fire. As she rushed out of the cell, a guard suddenly appeared right in front of her, a knife in his hands. He was bleeding from the head, and he looked ready to kill. 

 

Skidding to a stop, Molly looked around frantically for a weapon.

 

“ _ Mon ami! _ ” She looked to her left and saw an old man wearing a fedora holding a metal chair leg out to her. Having no time to wonder how he had managed to get the leg, she grabbed it gratefully and with all of her strength knocked the knife out of the trooper’s hands and with another swing hit his head with a crack. He fell to the ground with a thud. She dropped the chair leg and took deep breaths to collect herself.

 

John and Sherlock stood in awe of what the petite archaeologist had just done. She looked back at them and shouted for them to move. Immediately they both went into action.

 

“John!” Sherlock tossed the keys to his friend. “Get them out! Molly and I need to get the tablets!”

 

“What?” John glanced up at the roof, which sounded dangerously close to caving in. “Are you insane? It’s literally war out there! You’ll get shot or blown up! We need to get out of here!”

 

Molly was inclined to agree with John, but knew that they had to find the tablets as soon as possible.

 

“Let’s go!” She said.

 

“What are you doing?” John exclaimed in disbelief.

 

“They have both the tablets!” Sherlock yelled, trying to explain quickly. “Graf is probably getting away with both of them right now, and we need to find the Flagon before them!” With that he grabbed Molly’s hand and they were running toward the main door of the prison building. They didn’t need to open it themselves, though, because it was blown apart as they reached it. After recovering, Molly and Sherlock were faced with what could only be described as chaos. The Nazi forces were in retreat as Reims burned and French and English forces moved in to complete the rout. They could see Graf’s headquarters was still standing and ran for it, having to dodge bullets and grenades as they went. The street was only about ten feet wide, but Molly had never thought anything could be longer.

 

They had almost reached the doorstep when a bullet grazed Sherlock’s leg and he fell with a startled cry. Molly knelt beside him to check the wound, but was stopped by the feeling of the hot muzzle of a gun on her back.

 

“Hang on there, miss.” A voice she never thought she would hear again said. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”

 

“Greg?” She turned quickly to find a very stunned Gregson Lestrade gawking down at her.

 

“You shot me!” Sherlock yelled indignantly.

 

“What in the blazes are you two doing here?” Lestrade shouted. “You!” he pointed to Sherlock. 

 

“You’re supposed to be dead! And why are you dressed like Nazis?”

 

“Is now the time?” Molly exclaimed, and they all ducked as one of the allied tanks shot over their heads. Lestrade immediately yanked Sherlock up and dragged him onto the front steps of the house where he dropped him before raising his rifle and taking a few shots at some charging German soldiers. All four fell dead.

 

Molly watched the exchange, too distracted by the action to remember that she was tending to Sherlock’s leg. Only after he winced in pain when she leant a little too heavily on the wound did she come to her senses. She examined the wound and sighed in relief.

 

“You’re alright,” she said. “The bullet just grazed you. Greg!” The former London police inspector turned to her. “Do you have a bandage?”

 

The man dug around in the pockets of his army uniform and produced what Molly needed.

“Listen,” he knelt down beside them. “I would love to stay and catch up, but I’ve got to help my men take back Reims. You two stay here. I’ll be back.” He gave Molly a look that Sherlock didn’t like at all and ran off to rejoin the fray.

 

Molly turned back to Sherlock and caught him giving her an accusatory look as she bandaged his leg.

 

“What?” she asked.

 

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Help me up. We need to get those tablets.”

 

Molly frowned but helped him to his feet and into the house. Once she was sure he was stable and could stand on his own, she immediately headed for the stairs and sprinted into Graf’s office. The place was torn apart, but the desk was intact. She hurried forward and searched frantically for the lever that would release the secret cupboard. Sherlock reached the room just as she found it and opened the cupboard. Both tablet pieces were there still, something that Molly had to admit surprised her.

 

“Why didn’t Graf take these?” she murmured as she ran her hands over the smooth, black surface of the tablet. “He surely had time.”

 

Sherlock hobbled over and peered at the tablet for the first time. “He wasn’t here when Lestrade and his people started their attack. He would have taken these if he had been, you’re correct in that.”

 

Molly made a thoughtful noise. The sounds of war from outside had started to die down, though there was still some fire from what seemed to be outside of Reims. She glanced up at Sherlock and pushed one of the pieces toward him.

 

“Can you carry this and walk?” she asked.

 

He pulled the heavy rock into his arms with an ease that Molly felt must have been unnatural. 

 

“Of course,” he said. She shrugged and picked up the other one with a grunt before leading the way to the door, down the stairs (“Careful, Sherlock, you were still grazed by a bullet!”), and back to the stoop of the house. There, the two of them laid the tablets down carefully and sat down next to each other. They looked out at the city, watching the Allied men go to and fro as they searched for more enemies.

 

“You two know you’re still dressed like Nazis, yeah?” John approached them casually, grinning. “Might want to take the jackets off at least.”

 

Molly and Sherlock glanced at the sleeves of their jackets, where the infamous swastika lay, and quickly pulled the piece of clothing off and them on the ground.

 

“I’m glad to get that thing off,” Molly shivered with disgust. “I feel like a shower now, though.”

 

“You and me both, Molly,” John agreed as he took a seat on the step just below them. He looked curiously at the two black stones that were set between Molly and Sherlock. “Those the things you two were after?”

 

Molly nodded. John grunted and shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Does that mean you two are done?” he asked.

 

“I’m afraid it means we’ve only just begun,” Molly replied quietly.


	6. Chapter 6

After the battle was over and all the dust had settled, Molly, Sherlock, and John, who had simply stayed on the porch of Graf’s former office, were escorted by an English private to Lestrade’s makeshift headquarters.

 

Molly glanced down at the heavy half of the tablet she was holding in her hands and then to the other half Sherlock held and felt deeply relieved. Graf couldn’t do anything with them now, and neither could his Führer. Not that Molly thought the thing the tablets talked about was actually real, or that they had real powers, but all the same, it was better to be safe than to be sorry. She was interrupted in her thoughts by the private informing them that Lestrade was “just inside.”

 

The trio entered the almost burnt out building, Sherlock limping slightly. It used to be the city hall, according to a broken sign that stood next to Lestrade’s thrown together office. He looked up with a grin as his three friends entered.

 

“You know, I really shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve all managed to be in one of the most dangerous places in the world right now. You always find trouble somehow.” He chuckled and reached for John’s, then Sherlock’s hands, shaking them vigorously. Molly, he gave a hug, which she happily returned (albeit awkwardly, due to the heavy rock in her arms). Sherlock looked on with a blank look on his face, although John was smirking up at him. Sherlock’s friend could tell when the man was jealous.

 

“It’s really good to see you, Greg.” Molly smiled at the former police inspector once they had broken their embrace. “We really owe you a lot, actually. Had it not been for you, we probably would be dead this morning, or worse.”

 

The man nodded and slipped his hands into his uniform trouser pockets. “I’m sure. I’ve heard nasty tales of this Graf fellow. We heard he’d captured a French platoon that had a few of our fellows in it - sorry that was you, John - and decided to try to take Reims back. Glad to know we made the right decision. But, what are you doing here in the first place, and why is Sherlock not dead?” he then gave Sherlock a very curious look.

 

“Well, it’s a bit of a long story...” Molly sighed.

 

“Does it have anything to do with those black rocks in your arms?” Lestrade gestured to Molly and Sherlock’s load.

 

“I see your deductive skills have improved, Inspector,” Sherlock remarked. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

 

“You know, Sherlock,” he glared, “I did solve a few cases on my own before you decided to make your grand entrance into my life.”

 

“A  _ few _ ,” Sherlock replied with emphasis.

 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Molly interjected, scowling reproachfully at Sherlock, who muttered something like an apology to Lestrade. “Anyway,” she continued. “You’re right, Greg. These tablets are actually the reason we’re here. Graf had them in his office. They’re, um, special...” Molly wasn’t quite sure how to explain Nocturnal to the pragmatic officer before her.

 

“By the way,” John spoke up, a thought suddenly coming to him. “Where is Graf? Did you capture him?”

 

Lestrade sighed regretfully. “Unfortunately not,” he replied, which garnered dismayed expressions from his friends. “He must have had a quick escape route planned, because we didn’t even find a trace of him apart from his offices. Even then, all of his important paper work was gone.”

 

Sherlock suddenly uttered a curse and everyone turned to him. He had set the half of the tablet he was holding on a chair and was standing it over it in disgust.

 

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked with a worried frown.

 

“This isn’t the real half we’re looking for,” he replied gravely. “Graf still has the second half.”

 

Molly’s mouth dropped open and she rushed over to the chair and examined Sherlock’s half herself, comparing it to the one she held while simultaneously ensuring the one she had was real. It was, and Sherlock was right. The second half didn’t match the first at all. She leaned against the nearest wall and shook her head slowly.

 

“I can’t believe he managed to get away with it, again,” she whispered. “How did he know he’d have to have a fake, and why not create a fake for this one?” she pointed to the one she was still holding.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s making some sort of point, or he wants us to follow him. It could be he took advantage of Lestrade’s assault to entice us to wherever the Flagon is.”

 

“You really think Graf could have planned something like that on the spur of the moment?” John asked in disbelief. “Tonight was far too fast for that.”

 

“Unless he knew the assault was coming,” Sherlock said simply.

 

“Irene,” Molly supplied darkly. “Lestrade, were any of the men in Paris over the last week? More specifically, after this mission was planned?”

 

Lestrade frowned and shook his head. “I think so, why? You think we have a mole?” his face grew angry and reached for a nearby radio.

 

“No,” Molly said quickly. “Not a conscious one anyway.” She looked at Sherlock. “What are we 

going to do?”

 

He met her gaze with excited eyes. “Go after Graf, naturally.”

 

“Um, really think that’s a bad idea,” Lestrade informed them. “When I heard we hadn’t got him I asked for other outposts to keep an eye out. Last communication I got, he’s headed for Germany.”

 

“Well then,” Sherlock looked between John and Molly and rubbed his hands together. “Who’s up for trip to Deutschland?”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t as easy to get to Germany as it had been to fly into France. Molly and Sherlock feared they would be known to the German authorities, if Graf was as obsessed with them as Sherlock assumed, so they couldn’t take any mainstream routes. John felt it would be better to stay behind and assist Lestrade in France. The part of the war that he was fighting wasn’t the same as Molly and Sherlock, and he wasn’t prepared for it. They said their goodbyes and separated, with Sherlock promising to explain everything to John once they returned to England. The word  _ if  _ went unspoken between them.

 

So Molly and Sherlock had decided that hopping aboard a cargo train in secret was the best way to sneak into Germany. If the train was searched, there was an easy way to hide or escape. After retrieving some things from their hotel in Paris, including Molly’s favorite hat, a fedora her father had given her before he had died, they moved to a position just outside of Paris and clambered onto what Sherlock suspected was a Nazi supply train. If it wasn’t, it was still going in the right direction.

 

They passed the time in silence, Sherlock studying the tablet closely while Molly napped. After a few hours - Molly wasn’t sure how long - Sherlock spoke up and woke her.

 

“Did you see the prophecy on the back?” he asked. Molly looked at him in confusion and he nodded. “No. Well, there’s a prophecy on the back of the tablet.”

 

Molly immediately scooted over to where he was sitting, propped up against boxes of grain, and leaned over his shoulder to peer at the words that looked inscribed in silver on the back of the stone.

 

“How did I not see this before? I examined this thing from top to bottom, back and front, and so did Professor Jordan!” she murmured and marveled over the newly revealed words. As she looked at them her face changed from confusion to awe. “Unless... do you think it has something to with finding the second half? If they were together... maybe that’s what made the words appear.”

 

Sherlock smiled proudly and nodded. “I thought of the same possibility, but I didn’t know if you had simply forgotten to tell me about them, or they hadn’t been there before now.”

 

Molly smiled back excitedly and pointed to the glinting words. “So? What do they say? You’ve said they’re a prophecy, but of what?”

 

“ _ In Nocturnal’s hell amidst that which is frozen, Lies the key to the knowledge, of birthing an army of death... _ ” He read aloud dramatically, slowly, and Molly thought he was glad to have an audience. When he stopped talking, however, she frowned.

 

“Go on,” she urged, thinking he might have wanted encouragement for his theatrics. “It’s not done yet, is it?”

 

“I’m afraid it is,” Sherlock replied whilst looking at the stone. “The rest must be on the second half. The runes stop just short of the split. Which, I might add, is very clean. They had very good tools, whoever they were.”

 

“The Cult of Nocturnal, you mean,” Molly supplied absentmindedly. She was thinking of what the little poem meant for their mission, and where Graf might be going with the second half of the tablet.

 

“Yes, those fellows,” Sherlock murmured, staring at her. “Did you say they were daedric?”

 

“That’s what Professor Jordan said they were,” she nodded.

 

“And this tablet is volcanic? Probably Icelandic?”

 

“Yes.” She bobbed her head again. “Why?”

 

“That is very interesting. Oh yes, very interesting.” He smiled like he had a secret, one which others would want desperately. His eyes glinted excitedly, the gold flecks in the ever-changing blue shining. That and his smile in turn excited Molly, though for an entirely different reason. He looked incredibly attractive and very irresistible when he was excited about finding something out. That had always been part of why Molly had been drawn to him: his passion for his work. (Though she found out that it was more of a passion for being right all of the time.)

 

“Don’t be a git, Sherlock, just tell me what you know.” Molly rolled her eyes and tried not to be too distracted. He must have noticed the change in her demeanor however, because he suddenly became very still and observed her carefully before speaking again.

 

“Where did the worshippers of daedric entities tend to live, Dr. Hooper?” he asked.

 

“In northern areas,” she replied slowly, trying to remember Professor Jordan’s lectures on northern European and Atlantic tribes. “Norway, Sweden, Greenland...”

 

“Iceland.”

 

“Sherlock, we know the tablet probably comes from Iceland,” she scowled. “What are you getting at?”

 

He sighed and stood to pace the car (though difficult to do on a moving train, Sherlock tried nonetheless), which told Molly he was ready to monologue. She sat back and crossed her arms, but was prepared to listen.

 

“The tablet is saying that a key to ‘birthing an army of death’ is inside a hell which is frozen. I’m assuming that key is the Flagon.” He looked at her and she nodded in agreement. “These tablets are carved from rock that was most likely formed inside an Icelandic volcano. Fire and ice. A frozen hell, so to speak.”

 

Molly slowly stood, balancing against the boxes behind her carefully. “You’re saying that the Flagon is in the same place the tablet was made.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Which would be a volcano in Iceland.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Molly’s eyes shined with excitement at having some semblance of an idea where the Flagon could be, but reality set in quickly and she shook her head. “But we can’t know that for certain until we get the second half,” she said. “The rock the tablet is made of is a promising lead, but for all we know the Flagon could be somewhere in the Sahara.”

 

“True. But have you ever known me to be wrong, Molly?” Sherlock grinned confidently.

 

She met his grin with a sardonic smile. “I think trusting Irene Adler was wrong.” At that, his smile fell and Molly felt a twinge of guilt.

 

“A miscalculation that I assure will never repeat itself,” he said gravely. “Do believe me, I had not expected her to fall under the Nazi Party’s sway.”

 

Molly looked down at her brown boots and bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

 

“Why did you?”

 

She looked up again, puzzled. “You asked if I had ever known you to be wrong.”

 

“There are multiple occurrences where such an event has happened in your presence, however much I hate to admit it. Morocco, 1937, for instance,” he pointed out.

 

“Oh, that!” she laughed. “Honestly, I don’t know why you thought that skeleton was of African origin. It was obviously Chinese and planted there to throw us off.”

 

“Exactly my point,” Sherlock took a step closer to her. “You could have listed many times that I have been wrong professionally but you chose Irene Adler, a woman who is obviously only out for her own gain. Being wrong about a person’s intent is not quite as embarrassing to me as being wrong professionally. Why does she disturb you so much?”

 

“Because she led us into a Nazi trap,” Molly said angrily. “You trusted her, and I trusted you. I’m angry that you made a stupid mistake and almost got us killed.”

 

“Is that really all? I saw you watching her that night at the bar. You were jealous.” He was very close to her now, inches away. Molly sighed in multiple kinds of frustration.

 

“So what if I was? I had no idea who she was and she was getting awfully friendly with you. In case you hadn’t noticed, I still harbor a few ill-advised feelings for you,” she snapped.

 

He narrowed his eyes. “If that’s so, then why didn’t you let me stay that night?”

 

“What?”

 

“In Paris. I know you wanted to ask me to stay.” He let a little bit of the hurt feelings he had felt then surface.

 

“That bothered you?” She narrowed her eyes, perplexed and ever more irritated. “Why?

 

“Because you weren’t being honest with me. You avoided telling me why. You’re always honest.” His eyes bored into hers, willing her to tell him then.

 

Molly pursed her lips into a thin line and thought about simply telling him to shove off and leave her alone, but decided to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear. She was tired of bearing it on her own. “Alright. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t want to –  _ I can’t _ – fall in love with you all over again only to be reminded each and every day that you don’t really care about me in the same way. That was shown time and time again during our little jaunt as a ‘couple’. All I ever was for you before was a convenience and sometimes intimate companion. I know the most attractive thing about me was that I was able to get you body parts from the morgue. But it was  _ never  _ what I wanted. I want more. You don’t. If I let us – whatever disturbed notion of a relationship ‘us’ is – happen again, I know what the endgame will be. You’ll get bored and leave me without a word. Even though I know all of that,” she laughed at herself and a few tears fell down her cheeks. “I still love you. I hate myself for loving you. That’s why, Sherlock.”

 

She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to collect herself as she waited for his response, but there was nothing. Only a soft rustle as he moved away from her and sat back down next to the tablet, quietly returning to his study of its smooth surface. Molly felt every word she said was justified and sank down where she stood, allowing herself a few moments of heartache but refusing to wallow too long in self-pity. There were greater things to worry about than whether Sherlock Holmes returned her romantic feelings.

 

* * *

 

Molly’s words burned into Sherlock’s brain alongside his guilt and hurt. She assumed he didn’t care for her in the same way she cared for him. That had never been true, though he would be hard put to admit it. He had realized in Russia, away from her warmth and kindness, her patience and intelligence that nearly rivaled his own, that he missed her desperately. Far more than a friend, like John. He had regretted not having had that revelation whilst with her, especially considering he had thought he would most likely never see her again. When he saw her again that day she rescued him, what he assumed was hope sprang up inside him.

 

But she didn’t want to have anything to do with him now, and he didn’t blame her. He had treated her abominably before. Even though they had experienced good times together, it was always in the professional sense, not as a couple. Sherlock knew that if John were there right now, he would be giving the detective an I-told-you-so look that would rival any other to come for the rest of time.

 

Sherlock had blown his chance to be with Molly Hooper.

 

_ She still loves me though. _

 

His eyes popped open and he glanced at the now sleeping woman of science, such a rarity in their era. She may have said she hated being in love with him, but that definitely meant she was still in love with him, right? He would have asked John, but since that wasn’t an option, he was going to have to take Molly’s words at their literal meaning. He would find a way to change her mind. To prove he cared for her as well. Something - someone - had given him a second chance with her, and he was determined not to ruin it again.

 

* * *

 

The train stopped a few hours later at a Nazi checkpoint at the German border. Molly was gently shaken awake by Sherlock, who pressed a finger to his lips to indicate the need to stay silent. She watched him point to the door train car door and sign they needed to leave. She nodded and slowly stood to grab her knapsack, heavy now with the tablet inside. They moved toward a gap between the crates of grain, one which would hopefully keep them hidden from the prying Nazi eyes. It was a tight squeeze, and Molly was stuck having to stare at Sherlock’s chest while he was splayed flat against the wall of crates. It was especially awkward in context of their last conversation. Molly puffed out her cheeks and sighed slowly.

 

“Could you please try to be annoyed later, Molly?” Sherlock whispered and she looked up at him sharply. “Your loud sighs are going to alert the inspectors.”

 

Molly bit her tongue to refrain from retorting, but did intentionally knock her foot lightly against 

Sherlock’s injured leg. He grunted and his face tightened with pain, but he could not afford a greater reaction than that. The door to the train car opened at that exact moment, and two Nazi inspectors entered. Molly held her breath and could feel Sherlock stiffen as he did the same, both waiting to be discovered. The inspectors spoke in German, and though both Sherlock and Molly understood the language fairly well, their voices were too hushed to completely make out what they were saying. There was very little moving about by the inspectors, a surprise to the stowaways, and after only a few minutes, the train car was again ensconced in semi-darkness and silence. However, Sherlock and Molly didn’t move from their hiding place right away.

 

“I think it’s best if we wait until the train is moving again,” Molly whispered. “No surprises that way.”

 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “But would you mind taking your foot off mine? Thank you.” He sighed in relief.

 

The train began moving again only a few minutes later, another surprise to the temporary inhabitants.

 

“Shouldn’t have we been stopped an hour or more?” Molly asked once they had clambered – awkwardly – out from their hiding place. “I would have thought inspections took longer.”

 

“They do, usually,” Sherlock replied, a curious expression on his face. “We should be careful.”

 

They spent the rest of the trip into Germany in relative silence, only speaking when neither could stand just the sound of the train any longer. It was usually Molly who spoke up first, though Sherlock didn’t mind responding, or starting a conversation when it seemed that Molly was having a hard time. He could always tell, even if she didn’t want to admit it.  _ His stubborn Molly _ , he thought fondly as he listened to her tell of how she had to argue with the Dean of her college about going on a trip abroad as part of her research for her Anthropology thesis.

 

“He tried to convince me the work would be too hard,” she scoffed and leaned her head against a crate. “I told him I would go straight to the university governors if I had to in order to complete my degree. I even dropped a name. Mycroft’s, actually.” At which Sherlock gave her a surprised and disgusted look. “Oh, don’t be like that!” She laughed. “He’s saved my life a couple of times without even knowing it.”

 

“As long as it didn’t stroke his already enormous ego,” Sherlock sniffed.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Molly countered. “You’re a walking ego monster.”

 

“If we’re going to discuss Freud, then you’re going to have to remember that I’m a Jungian,” he told her. Molly laughed at that.

 

“Oh no, I’m not getting into another of those arguments again!” She shook her head and then grew solemn. “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have burst out like that.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I deserved it. I must agree that I haven’t been the most reliable person in the world.”

 

“Not in the least,” Molly agreed with a nod. “But, you are a good friend, even with all your faults.”

 

Sherlock looked at her with searching eyes. “I can be more than that... I want to be.”

 

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but found she couldn’t, not only from surprise, but from the train suddenly stopping with a jolt that sent both passengers tumbling to the other end of the car.

Light flooded the car and blinded Molly and Sherlock, and before they knew what was happening, they were being dragged out and thrown onto the bare ground. Struggling to their feet, Sherlock needing a little extra help due to his injured leg, they stood back to back and found themselves surrounded by Nazis.

 

“I am so glad we have this chance to meet again,” Commander Graf spoke from Molly’s side. “Although, I can’t actually say it was kismet, more of an earthly design.” He smiled, which made Molly’s stomach churn.

 

“You planned this?” she croaked in disbelief. “Why?”

 

“I need you,” he replied simply. “Both of you.”

 

“You’ll never get us to cooperate.” Sherlock told Graf, no emotion in his voice. Graf gave him a sympathetic look.

 

“My dear Mr. Holmes,” he said softly. “You are now going to understand why I need you.” With a nod from Graf, one of his underlings stepped forward and shoved the butt of his rifle into Sherlock’s gut, causing him to stumble to the ground. That same soldier then took his rifle and smashed it into Sherlock’s leg wound, garnering a yowl of pain from Sherlock. Molly immediately started forward to help Sherlock, but a warning wave from Graf had her wheeling on the Nazi commander instead, anger blazing in her eyes and her body shaking with rage. She didn’t say anything, for fear something worse would happen to Sherlock.

 

“Do you understand, Dr. Hooper?” Graf asked and she nodded once. “Delightful. Now come. We’re off to my little manor. I have a surprise for you there!”

 

With that Graf turned away, followed by his entourage. Four stayed back to guard Molly and Sherlock as she helped him up. The guards prodded them forward to join the rest of the group, and they were on their way. Molly hoped she and Sherlock could figure out an escape, or they really would be doomed.


	7. Chapter 7

The trek to Graf’s manor in the Ahr Hills wasn’t a long one, but thanks to Graf’s display of power on Sherlock, it was a painful one. Molly hated that Sherlock had to suffer because of her and desperately wished she could find an easy way out that wouldn’t require him to move a lot, but she was hard put to find such a solution. Especially once they were inside Graf’s manor. The place was a fortress. It had obviously having belonged to one of the old guard of Germany’s elite before the war, and now was teeming with Nazi intelligence officers, guards, and a few SS officers. Molly and Sherlock were taken to a room with very few furnishings, though it had once been a large dining hall from what Molly could tell, and tied up to a stone pillar in the center of the room.

 

“Well, this is cozy,” Sherlock remarked lightly, but Molly could feel through their connected binds how heavily to one side he was leaning. He was definitely in pain.

 

“Sherlock, I am so sorry. Your leg... are you alright? Of course you’re not.” She shook her head quickly. "This is all my fault.”

 

“Molly, do be quiet,” he said harshly. “None of this is your fault, don’t be ridiculous. My leg is fine. I’ve had worse. I just don’t need any more of those bastards coming in and messing with it again, so let’s try to get out of here as quickly as possible. I didn’t see any immediate exit routes, did you?”

 

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to remember their walk through the lower section of the manor. “Not from this floor, no. Maybe the second floor? It’s closer to the mountainside, and there might be a room up there that overlooks the garage we passed on the way inside.”

 

“Possibly. What about the tablet?”

 

“We’ll try, but I don’t see how it’s possible to escape and also get the tablet.” She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “It seems such a waste...”

 

“It is if you are going to give up,” Sherlock told her bluntly. “The Dr. Molly Hooper I know never gives up on her goal, no matter the odds.”

 

“And the Sherlock Holmes I know doesn’t give motivational speeches,” she replied, but smiled.

 

“Russians are actually more optimistic than our society realizes,” Sherlock joked, and he was gratified to hear Molly laugh. “Do you agree to not give up? Did my crude attempt to boost your morale work?”

 

“You know, it did a little,” she replied softly. “Thank you Sherlock... um, by the way, while we’re tied up and have the time... did you mean what you said on the train?”

 

“About what?” Sherlock was trying to loosen his bonds and was a little distracted.

 

“About being, um, more... with me?” Molly couldn’t believe that she was thirty-two years old and tied up in a Nazi stronghold and nervous about what Sherlock’s answer would be.

 

“Of course I was,” he replied, his tone irritated. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

 

“Oh.” Molly smiled again, feeling a little giddy, but the good feelings dissipated when Graf and a tall, blond man who looked like a hybrid between a troll and a strongman came into the room carrying the two halves of the tablet. Graf placed the halves on a small table at the center of the room before turning to his prisoners.

 

“How are we doing? Mr. Holmes, I do hope your leg is doing better. It would be a shame if you had to walk with a limp for the rest of your life,” Graf said with pseudo concern. The blond man untied them. Molly moved quickly to Sherlock’s side to assist him, but he brushed her hands away.

 

“No need to worry about my leg, Graf,” he responded. Graf smiled tightly.

 

“Then shall we get to work?” he gestured to the tablets. “I believe you can read ancient Norse, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded but said nothing else and didn’t make a move toward the table. Molly knew where Graf was headed, and was prepared to defend Sherlock at any cost.

 

Graf smiled and looked down as he rubbed gently at his left temple. “I did not think you would need clarification, Mr. Holmes, but would you please read the tablets.”

 

“Mmm, no.” Sherlock smiled humorlessly. “I don’t want to.”

 

Graf’s jaw set so hard in his mouth, it seemed as if one or two of his teeth would crack from the pressure. The man had a very short fuse.

 

“Ahem, Mr. Holmes. I should have introduced my colleague, Herr Gunther. He is ready to break quite a few bones of Dr. Hooper, in fact, he’s a bit bored and would prefer if you didn’t cooperate...”

 

Molly glanced behind her and saw the man leering at her with murderous eyes.

 

“I suppose you were the child who always got left out at playtime, Graf?” she remarked, simmering with rage. “Why can’t you play nice?”

 

“Nice is for idiots. Translate, Mr. Holmes,” Graf said harshly and pointed to the tablets. With one look at Gunther, Sherlock limped forward and ran his hands over the tablets.

 

“Why didn’t you have your own expert, Graf?” he asked nonchalantly. “Seems like an oversight on your part.”

 

“Oh, we did. But the unfortunate incident at Reims killed him. You were the logical substitute. Dr. Hooper made the right choice. What does it say? Please be prompt, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Sherlock spoke quickly and explained the content of the first tablet, which he had already memorized.

 

“The second tablet is harder to read because there are more runes. It seems like whoever designed this tablet purposely did so with the intent of breaking it. The edges are too clean, the lines too smoothly broken up. The second tablet’s rhyme is:  _ Only when two halves come together will the Flagon make its presence known... _ Hmmm, that’s obvious. Couldn’t have been a bit more innovative, could they?” He pushed the two halves together and the four people in the room were shocked to watch the tablet sear itself together and reveal a map, made up of the words written across its surface. Graf pushed Sherlock out of the way to peer more closely at the tablet. Gunther stepped forward at the same time to get his own look at the rock.

 

Molly and Sherlock glanced at each other, amazed at the opportunity afforded to them as Graf chattered excitedly over the meaning of the map. They communicated a plan silently and initiated it before they lost their chance. Sherlock reached forward and grabbed Gunther’s holstered pistol and quickly hit him across the back of the neck with it, knocking the larger man to the floor. At the same time, Molly kicked Graf off his feet and punched him in the face with much satisfaction. It took several punches a few kicks to the head for Graf to be completely knocked out, plus and Sherlock had some trouble with Gunther (the man must have had a skull of steel), but in the span of only a few semi-silent minutes, Molly and Sherlock had subdued their captors. They dragged them to the pillar that they had been tied to and used the same rope to bind Graf and Gunther to the pillar.

 

“Make it tight,” Molly told Sherlock. “Really tight.”

 

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. Causing their captors a little discomfort came with great satisfaction. After he and Molly secured Graf and Gunther, they looked over the now complete tablet.

 

“This is amazing,” Molly murmured, brushing her hand over the smooth granite. “I’ve never seen a piece latch itself together like that.”

 

Sherlock just looked at the tablet with narrowed eyes. “I haven’t figured out how they did it yet, but I will,” he said.

 

Molly raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m all for the scientific method, Sherlock, but even I have to wonder if there isn’t something... otherworldly, going on here.”

 

He opened his mouth to further argue the point, but a loud shout outside of the room made them both jump and ready themselves for a fight. The shouting wasn’t directed at them, however, but at something in the courtyard of the manor. Molly and Sherlock rushed the heavily curtained windows of the room and peered out. There were people dressed in all black with staffs as weapons fighting the Nazi guards and soldiers. There was also a full-fledged fire blazing near the main door. Whoever they were, they had the Nazis in an uproar.

 

“Allies?” Molly voiced, but doubted it even as she said it.

 

“I am going to guess that’s the very cult we’re seeking,” Sherlock mused. “Their clothes aren’t marked, but they’re communicating as a unit is perfect. Their masks would require them to do so without speaking.”

 

“Alrighty, well, the people who are beating the Nazis up are about to breach the front door, so maybe we ought to think about leaving.” Molly started for the door and Sherlock followed.

 

“Why?” he asked, pausing as she put her ear to the door and nodding when she heard nothing but shouting; the Nazis were probably too busy to notice their two prisoners escaping. “I know you said Professor Jordan told you they were dangerous,” Sherlock continued. “But I think we might be in a ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ situation. The Nazis did steal the tablet.”

 

“Yes,” Molly nodded but walked over and emphatically picked up the tablet. “But now we have it.”

 

“Good point.”

 

She rolled her eyes and hurried back to the door. Sherlock slowly opened it and they both crept out. They soon realized there was no need to be sneaky, as the Nazis were busy fighting off attackers who had made it inside. The people in black, who definitely were of the Cult of Nocturnal (one of them shouted a curse in ancient Norse as he was shot), were crawling all over the manor, coming in through broken windows and down the staircases.

 

“Maybe they won’t notice us,” Molly said hopefully as she and Sherlock rushed down the main hall toward where they supposed the kitchens were; in any case, there had to be another door on that side. Molly didn’t have time to think about the direction they were going, for just as they started running, a member of the Cult popped up in front of them and swung their staff at Molly’s legs. Molly quickly jumped up and kicked at them. As their attacker leapt back, Sherlock flinged a nearby tablet at them. The table broke into pieces with a crash, though it was but a whisper amidst the chaos that surrounded them. Their attacker went down and didn’t move.

 

Molly and Sherlock leapt over his body and hurried toward a door at the end of the hall. Sherlock opened it, but they both stopped short at the sight before them. It was a large room, but they couldn’t tell what it was for because of the battle going on inside. The Cult and the Nazis were in the middle of an almost medieval battle.

 

“Shall we try upstairs?” Sherlock suggested after closing the door. Molly nodded and he grabbed her hand as they ran back down the hall and toward the stairs. They had to fight off a Nazi soldier and another Cult attacker, who almost managed to grab the tablet out of Molly’s hands, but they managed to run up the stairs.

 

“Do you think they know we have the damn thing?” Molly panted as they ran up the third flight and landed on the second floor of the manor. Shouts and a crash from below told the two escapees that they had pursuers and that the building was starting to destabilize.

 

“I think we should move quickly,” Sherlock said in reply.

 

“Agreed.”

 

Once again, Sherlock grabbed Molly’s free hand and they ran down the long hall toward where they thought the garage was. Molly’s other arm was straining from holding the now complete tablet. It wasn’t going to be long before she dropped it and sure enough, it slipped from her grasp. It fell to the wooden floor with a loud  _ thunk _ , but they kept running for a moment before realizing it was gone. When she did, Molly stopped abruptly to pick it up again, dragging Sherlock back with her. Unfortunately she did not manage to reach the tablet before their Nocturnal chasers reached the second floor landing. Molly lurched forward and dragged the tablet into her arms, but had to jump out of reach of a knife flung straight at her head. Sherlock swore at the Cult and grabbed the tablet from Molly, who slid into the group of Cult members, much to Sherlock’s terror. She pulled out a rope from seemingly nowhere and in the blink of an eye had the three Cultists tangled among themselves. She jumped to her feet and rushed back to Sherlock. He stared at her awe, not for the first time, nor the last. A blast from below alerted them to Nazi efforts to destroy the home with the Cultists inside.

 

“RUN!” Sherlock shouted. Flames flickered at the walls, the entire manor shook, and the wood groaned from strain. They both began running full tilt down the hall. Sherlock was leading the way, counting down the doors to where he estimated the garage was. There were only two doors left, so he picked one and tried to kick it in, but his wounded leg failed him and he stumbled back in pain. Molly brushed past him and kicked the door in herself. She hurried inside to peer through the window.

 

“Sherlock! Come on!” She shouted and he limped forward to join her. There was a sloped roof that would take them down to the garage, and they had no choice but to go through it. It took some effort for Molly to push the window up, for it hadn’t been opened recently. Sherlock heaved the tablet outside and pushed it down the sloping roof before hopping up onto the window sill himself. He reached forward and helped Molly onto the roof. They looked behind them just as the three Cultists that were chasing them careened around the corner into the room. There was no time to think. They pushed off from the sill and slid toward the unknown.

 

Fortunately for Sherlock and Molly, the unknown was a pile of mulch. They bounced slightly as they landed and lay for a second to catch their breath.

 

“Are you alright?” Molly huffed. “Sherlock?”

 

“Fine!” he groaned in reply. “I’m alright. Where’s the tablet?”

 

Molly looked around and saw it lying not two feet from her. Crawling over to it, she grabbed it and got to her feet. Sherlock limped over to join her.

 

“We need to find a car.” Molly said, staring worriedly at Sherlock’s leg. It was shallow, but the strain the wound had been through the last couple of days could not have been good. She would have to check it for infection when they found a safer place.

 

“I’m sure Graf has one around here somewhere,” Sherlock muttered and forced himself to move quickly toward the garage. Chaos reigned behind them in the manor, but the garage was still untouched by the commotion and fighting.

 

There were only two vehicles inside the garage: a rusty old jeep and a new Rolls-Royce.

 

“Do you think Graf uses the jeep?” Molly snorted out her disdain.

 

“I think he’s about to.” Sherlock replied and with a grin he opened the Rolls-Royce’s driver’s side door and stepped inside with a wince.

 

“Alright, but how are you...” she didn’t have to finish her question, for just as she was about to voice her concern the engine in the car roared to life. “Never mind.” She stepped inside the car and placed the tablet in the spacious back seat.

 

Sherlock stepped on the gas and drove the car with no hesitation out of the garage and toward the only road out. He had no choice but to plow through people in the way. Gunfire and shouting followed them as the Rolls screeched down the hill  toward safety. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

They stopped only when the Rolls ran out of gas and it was well into the night when they did. They were deep in the German countryside, surrounded by nothing but trees and fog. Molly found it somewhat comforting. The Nazis wouldn’t be able to follow their trail too easily, though 

eventually they would locate the abandoned Rolls-Royce.

 

“I think we should find a place besides the car to rest.” Sherlock suggested, after trying to start the car for the third time. “And when morning comes, we need to find a new mode of transportation.”

 

“Oh dear,” Molly sighed in faux despondency. “I do so like the leather...”

 

“And do you like that it’s owned by the man who enjoys killing human beings for fun?” Sherlock said, bemused.

 

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes and got out, then tugged the tablet into her arms. “When you put it that way, the leather isn’t so nice.”

 

“Thought you might have a change of heart,” he replied and stepped out of the car himself, but breathed in sharply when he put his full weight down on his injured leg. Molly frowned and walked quickly to his side.

 

“Can you walk?” she asked, concerned. She had no idea why his leg was causing him so much pain, but if it was bad enough he couldn’t move, they were in a very bad position.

 

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock waved off her worry. “Just moved in a bad way. I’m fine.”

 

Molly looked at him dubiously but didn’t argue. They didn’t have time to argue.

 

“Alright. Then let’s go.” She stared back down the way they had come in the car. “I saw a dirt road back here a couple of kilometers back. There might be a place to stay there.”

They turned down the dirt road about a half hour later, and a few minutes after they came upon a small, brick house. It looked recently abandoned, and Molly said it was probably due to the war.

 

“Lucky for us,” Sherlock remarked. They slowly approached the house and cautiously stepped inside. It was dark and Sherlock had to light a match before they saw it was a one bedroom place, with the bedroom opening into the main room which doubled as the kitchen.

 

“Looks like we have an old-fashioned stove,” Molly quipped, nodding at the stone fireplace. “Not that we have anything to eat...” she added, suddenly realizing she was very hungry. The last time they had eaten was a piece of hardtack and jerky on the train before being found by the Nazis. Molly glanced at Sherlock and shrugged. “At least we’ll be warm.” She set the tablet down on the only piece of furniture in the room, a small wooden table, and took the matches from Sherlock. There was some fuel and in a minute, she had managed to start a fire bright enough to light the place. She moved toward the bedroom next.

 

Sherlock hobbled after her, but stopped and leaned against the table, allowing himself a moment to feel the pain in his leg. He suspected it was infected, but would need Molly to examine it for confirmation.

 

“There’s only one bed,” she said as she walked back into the main room. “And no blankets.”

 

“Sleeping in our clothes it is,” Sherlock said with a strained smile.

 

“Sherlock, are you actually alright?” she asked, a scowl darkening her usually cheerful face.

 

“I may have, ah, been hyperbolic in saying I was fine earlier,” he admitted slowly. “I suspect the wound may have become infected.”

 

“Go sit down on the bed,” Molly ordered.

 

“Dr. Hooper, you just gave me chills,” Sherlock teased.

 

“Shut up,” she rolled her eyes, but blushed. “I need to look at your leg.”

 

He bowed his head and made his way into the room. He disturbed a light layer of dust on the bed as he slowly lowered himself onto the thin mattress. Molly kneeled down on the floor in front of him and lifted his pant leg. As best as she could see in the low lighting, it was definitely infected. Red, puffy, with a little bit of pus and blood oozing out.

 

“When they kicked you before,” Molly said softly. “That’s why. It disturbed the bandage and aggravated the wound. Otherwise, this probably wouldn’t have happened.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Can you fix it?”

 

Molly’s nose wrinkled as she considered the matter, which Sherlock thought was incredibly adorable and, come to think of it, her kneeling there was a bit distracting. He shifted slightly and glared at her.

 

“Well?”

 

“I’m thinking,” Molly frowned at him. “It’s not like I have an even half-decent medical facility here. I don’t even have boiling water!” She went back to examining his leg, mumbling something like an expletive under her breath.

 

Sherlock sighed and fell back on the bed to stare at the ceiling.

 

“I have to get this pus out and clean it,” she said and suddenly stood and hurried back into the main room. Sherlock heard her opening cabinets and even knocking on the walls.  _ Looking for alcohol of some kind. _ After a minute he heard her huff triumphantly and come back into the room.

 

“Do you still have your pocketknife hidden in your jacket?” she asked. He sat up again and nodded as he reached inside his jacket and pulled his ever-hidden pocketknife out. He always kept some sort of utility tool close to his body for emergency situations. He handed the knife to Molly who took it and poured the bottle of alcohol ( _ Whiskey. Good age as well. What a pity. _ ) over the blade. He hissed and winced when she did the same to his infected wound.

 

“Now comes the nasty part.”

 

* * *

 

Molly had managed to find some clean linen in the house and rewrapped Sherlock’s leg, which was, though still throbbing, feeling somewhat better. After finishing, she had gone into the main room and brought the tablet into the bedroom. She placed it on the bed and stared at it for what seemed a good two minutes to Sherlock. Then she stood on the bed and looked at it from above.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked. Amused by her actions though he was, curiosity overrode the entertainment.

 

“Trying to figure out where does the map leads to. I can see it better this way.”

 

Sherlock turned around and knelt on the bed beside her. Kneeling he was at the same height as Molly’s chest and though it wasn’t perfect, he agreed it was a better angle to examine the map.

 

“Do you recognize where it could be?” Molly asked. “I can’t seem to place it.”

 

“I believe that’s a mountain,” he pointed to a certain clump of words in one corner. “The words ‘cold’ and ‘hell’ surround it, so I’m going to assume it’s the hypothetical volcano we’ve been discussing.”

 

“I see... but it doesn’t clarify exactly where this is,” she sighed and plopped back down on the bed. 

 

“We need a geographic map to compare it, and unfortunately, the Nazis took my bag.”

 

“Do you think our host might have one?” Sherlock mused, still looking at the tablet, amazed it had offered so much information. He wished he had a chance to thank its creator, but whoever they were, they were long dead.

 

Molly looked doubtful. “I think that would be an extraordinary stroke of luck."

 

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully and then sat down and closed his eyes. His elbows rested on his knees and he clasped his hands. He knew Molly knew that meant he was in mind palace and trusted she would stay quiet. He searched through so many rooms, feeling frustrated when door after door yielded nothing, but then he found his prey. When he opened his eyes again he swiveled around on the bed and grinned at her. Molly smiled back, but in confusion.

 

“What is it?” she prompted.

 

“I was right.”

 

“About what?” she asked with a puzzled tone. “What did you do in your mind palace?”

 

“I was looking for a map,” he replied and shifted closer to her. He loved being the only one with the answer. “I found just the right one. Although it was a few centuries old, which is actually perfect considering the age of the tablet. I found it on a case six years ago – you were at some conference in America – about a seafaring family tragedy. Turns out one man was killing off his entire family systematically and very uniquely. I would have liked to have a longer conversation with him, but John disapproved.” Sherlock frowned. “I could have learned many beneficial strategies-”

 

“Sherlock! What about the map?” Molly interrupted harshly.

 

“Very well, Molly, I was just getting to that,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “In any case, this man had a collection of old maps from his family, souvenirs from the places they clan visited over the generations. I archived them. I don’t really know why, come to think of it now. I may eliminate them now.” He looked away and seemed to be about to re-enter his mind palace, but Molly tugged at his shirt and forced him to look at her.

 

“What. Did. You. Find?” she asked impatiently, her eyes dancing with excitement.

 

“The Flagon is in Iceland, inside Askja, a semi-dormant volcano.” Sherlock replied, a little put out that she wasn’t as impressed with his memory and the case as he thought she should.

Molly squealed, utterly surprising Sherlock, and hugged him tightly. “Wait,” she pulled away and narrowed her eyes. “You’re sure?”

 

Sherlock gave her the most scathing look of disapproval she had ever seen. “Of course I’m sure. Please, Molly.” He rolled his eyes.

 

She smiled and hugged him again. “We’ve found it!”

 

“ _ If _ it even exists,” Sherlock interjected, but took the opportunity to wrap his arms around her. He enjoyed feeling her so close. It felt... right. She fit so nicely in his arms, a reminder that the world could be good and warm. She was the one person he missed the most during his sojourn in Russia. Thoughts of her helped him through the experience. And now she was in his arms and she smelled so very good. He hid his face against her neck and held her more tightly.

 

* * *

 

Molly was about to release Sherlock when she felt him shift and her breath caught in her throat when she felt his lips just touching her neck.

 

“Sherlock,” she whispered.

 

“I did mean it.” His voice was muffled. “What I said on the train.”

 

“I know,” she murmured, but was unsure now of what he was trying to say. “You said so before.”

“But I need you to  _ know _ it.” He finally raised his head and pulled back enough so that Molly could see his eyes. They were so blue and wide, searching hers. “I want to be more to you. Even than I was before. Do you understand?”

 

She didn’t answer for a moment, hesitant jump into what could possibly turn badly again. Sherlock was no saint. But the way he was staring at her, hopeful, vulnerable, but ready at a second to put his defenses up again told her he was being more serious now than she had ever thought him capable.

 

“I understand.” She nodded and smiled softly at him. The way he looked at her, with relief and happiness, told her more than she could ever hope Sherlock could ever verbalize. It was with no hesitation that she leaned forward again and pressed her lips to his. The chaste kiss quickly turned passionate as they both let themselves send every emotion felt over the last few weeks, even the years they were apart, into their embrace.

 

Except for Sherlock shoving the tablet off the bed and onto the floor, no other thought was given to their mission that night.

 

* * *

 

Molly woke up feeling a little chilly and realized why when she fully opened her eyes and remembered where she was. She shifted under the thin blankets and turned over on the very creaky bed (something she and Sherlock had realized very quickly the night before) and found 

Sherlock was gone. She frowned and sat up.

 

“Sherlock?” she called, but didn’t receive an answer. Quickly pulling on her clothes and shoes, noticed Sherlock’s were gone, and she moved out into the main room. Still no sign of the man. 

 

She went outside and looked around, even quietly calling his name, but still received no answer. Molly started to feel worried and hurried back into the house. She found a rucksack in the house and put the tablet inside. She had no idea what was happening, but considering the Nazi group and Cult that were after them, it was a possibility that they had gotten to Sherlock first and were simply awaiting an opportunity to get to her. If that was going to happen, she was going to make sure they tablet was well hidden. She didn’t know why, if her hypothesized scenario was true, they hadn’t taken the tablet, but there was no time to think through the situation. She looked frantically around the house for a good hiding spot, only succeeded in developing more frustration.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s deep voice caused her to jump and drop the tablet onto the floor in surprise.

 

“Sherlock!” She clutched at her chest. “Where the hell have you been?”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “I was putting petrol in the car. I found some in the back. Why?” He narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “You were worried. Molly, it doesn’t make any sense for them to take me and not the tablet too, at least.”

 

“I know,” she replied defensively. “I just... I just didn’t know where you were.”

 

Sherlock put the potatoes down on the table and went over to her. His arms slipped around her and she leaned into him with a sigh.

 

“I am sorry for worrying you,” he told her quietly.

 

“It’s alright,” she took a deep breath and pulled back. “I need to stop jumping to conclusions.” She smiled ruefully. “It’ll be the death of me.”

 

“I can help you learn to deduce properly,” he offered and Molly rolled her eyes.

 

“No thanks, I’ll leave that up to you. Now, you said you got petrol.”

 

Sherlock bobbed his head, his unruly curls bouncing across his forehead. “Enough to get us to the next town, I believe.”

 

“Good.” Molly picked the tablet up with a huff and headed for the door. “Then let’s get out of here.”  

 

The trip to the little town – a very small town; one which Molly thought had no idea what was going on in the world around it – took about two hours, and the petrol just barely covered the journey. Once there, the two travelers found a phone (an old-fashioned wind-up phone, just to add to the charm of the town) and managed to contact Mycroft. They arranged for a way out of Germany, but they would have to get to the German border first. When Sherlock asked a local how far from the border they were, they were told about ten miles.

 

“I see. Is there anywhere around here I can fill up my car,” he asked next, in German. The old man they were standing before considered the question for a moment before answering.

 

“No. You will have to use a buggy.”

 

Sherlock glanced at Molly with an expression that made her laugh.

 

“What, are you afraid of horses?” she asked, joking.

 

His response was an uncomfortable look and Molly gasped and covered her mouth to prevent herself from laughing.

 

“It’s not funny,” Sherlock mumbled.

 

The “buggy” was a half broken wagon, but the old man they had spoken to (who happened to own the buggy) assured them that it would hold.

 

“It’s strong. Like Olga.” He pat the dapple-grey horse lightly on the rump. The poor creature also looked like it was about to fall apart. However, they had no choice. They had exhausted their efforts to find petrol, but there was none in the town the people were willing to part with – the war had taken its effect on the little town after all. They rented the buggy with assurance that the horse and vehicle would be sent back unharmed.

 

Molly watched and refrained from giggling as Sherlock scrambled onto the seat of the buggy. It was incredibly comical how he skirted around the horse, avoiding as much contact with it as possible.

 

“Can you drive this thing?” he asked Molly as he looked dubiously at the reins and then at the petite woman who was sitting next to him.

 

“I suppose I have to. The horse needs a firm hand. Not someone who’s, ah,” she bit her bottom lip. “Nervous.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and blew out a breath. “Unbelievable.”

 

The trip in the buggy was quiet for the most part, except for once when the horse made a loud hacking sound that made Sherlock jump and nearly caused Molly to fall off from laughing. When they reached the border, they found surprisingly little resistance. They were at the Belgian-German border with a striped gate across the road and a small guard house at either end of it, but they saw no guards. All was quiet, suspiciously so. Sherlock and Molly slowly got off the buggy and approached one of guard houses cautiously. They heard movement of multiple people from inside and they both jumped back as the door suddenly swung open.

 

“Oi!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong like Olga (Chapter 8)  
> By kaotic86


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambush (Chapter 9)  
> By kaotic86

“Oi! What took you so long?” John grinned at them from the doorway, and Molly and Sherlock could see three or four more people behind him, all of them wearing French uniforms. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s get you two across. Mycroft’s waiting.”

 

“It’s good to see you again, John,” Molly chirped as the doctor lead them across the German border.

 

John smiled at her. “It’s nice to see you two, as well.” His eyes moved swiftly over the two of them and his smile grew wider. “Lots happened while you two were here, eh?”

 

Molly’s eyes grew wide and she blushed, though she felt certain he couldn’t possibly know what had occurred between her and Sherlock. He was of course intelligent, but nowhere near as perceptive as Sherlock.

 

“Um, yes...”

 

“He knows we had sex, Molly.”

 

“Sherlock!” Molly screeched, but John only laughed.

 

“It’s alright, Molls. I did figure out. It’s written all over you two.”

 

“ _ Now _ he can deduce,” Molly grumbled.

 

They arrived at the truck caravan that belonged to the men in Mycroft’s service. In effect, the British army. John led them to a small group of boxes and wires and pointed to a military radio.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock spoke into the device.

 

“Brother dear. How delightful.” Mycroft’s bored tone came through the radio. “Did Dr. Hooper find her quarry?”

 

Molly leaned in over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yes, I did, Mycroft. Thanks for all your help.”

 

“Of course Dr. Hooper,” he almost sounded amiable, which made Sherlock almost choke in 

disbelief. “If there is anything else...”

 

“Actually,” she interrupted. “There is.”

 

There was silence for a moment.

 

“What is it?”

 

“We need to get to Iceland.”

 

* * *

 

After a couple of hours of explanation and pleading, Molly and Sherlock managed to convince Mycroft the journey to Iceland was necessary. Actually, Molly did the most persuading. Sherlock joined Mycroft in making scornful remarks about probability of the Flagon’s legend. Molly got her way in the end, and a week later, Molly and Sherlock set foot in Iceland with a small escort provided by Mycroft.

Their hotel in Egilsstaoir was small but comfortable. The best one could expect in Iceland. Sherlock had researched the Askja volcano, and Egilsstaoir was the closest city to its slopes. Once they entered the hotel lobby and signed in, he asked the front desk about a car to get to the mountain.

“You want to go to Askja?” the receptionist looked scared. “Why? There is nothing but death there.”

Sherlock and Molly glanced at each other and leaned toward the woman more intently.

“Why is that?” Molly asked.

“Because... because... it’s a volcano. It’s dangerous.” The woman finished lamely and shoved their room keys toward them. “Please enjoy your stay.”

Sherlock took the keys but didn’t move. “All the same,” he said. “I would like to rent a car for tomorrow.”

The woman looked the definition of unhappy but assured Sherlock the arrangements would be made. Sherlock thanked her with a polite smile and he and Molly headed toward their rooms, their two-man escort right behind them.

“Why did we have to get two rooms?” Sherlock asked as they walked down the hotel’s third floor corridor.

“I’m not going into this again, Sherlock.” Molly scolded.

“I think your arguments are weak.”

“Then why did I win?”

“Because for some reason when you look at me I can’t help but say yes to whatever you want,” he mumbled. “Even if it’s stupid.”

“Stupid?” Molly repeated sharply.

“Impractical,” he corrected and stopped in front of his room. “We both know one of us will end up in the other’s bed. Why complicate the matter?”

Molly glanced at their bodyguards and back at Sherlock with a glare. “Will you be quiet?” she hissed. Sherlock looked at the two men and languidly rolled his head back to face Molly.

“They’re idiots.”

“Sherlock!” Molly almost stomped her foot out of frustration. “Never mind. I’m going to go read up on the Cult and the history of this volcano while I take a bath. Behave and be nice,” She ordered and moved across the hall to her room.

“No promises,” Sherlock replied lightly, before turning on his heel and entering his room.

* * *

 

Molly fell asleep on her bed, unable to move far once she had settled onto the comfortable mattress, even forgoing a bath in favor of a nap amidst the new literature she had been provided on the Cult by Mycroft. Some of it was the history Professor Jordan had told her about, but a lot of it was new and looked to be surveillance files. Many of them were profiles on certain important figures who were suspected of secretly being in the Cult of Nocturnal, including some prominent English politicians.

_ How did Mycroft find out all this? _  Molly had thought, right before her eyes drifted shut. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but when she awoke, there was a struggle happening outside of her room. At first, the commotion didn’t register to her sleep-addled mind, but when she heard multiple grunts and a shout, she jerked up and jumped off her bed. Rushing to her door she tore it open and saw five darkly clothed people subduing Mycroft’s men. Quickly shutting and locking the door, Molly glanced wildly around her room for anything to help her assist the guards, but before she could make another move, there was silence outside.

“Dr. Hooper. It’s alright.” Someone called in a British accent and Molly sighed in relief. She turned round to unlock the door. Before she did she heard the wooden floor creak just on the other side and that made her hesitate. She need assurance it was really Mycroft’s men.

“What are you going to tell Mikey?” she called, forcing her voice to be as casual as possible. “It’s not like he’ll be happy knowing his fiancée was nearly attacked.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am.” The voice said and Molly’s heart sank. “He’ll just be glad to know you’re safe. Come out.”

“Alright. But I need to get dressed,” she called back. As quickly and as quietly as she could she pushed an armchair that occupied the room against the door and rushed to the window. Looking down, she saw that there was no escape unless she jumped three floors into the dirty snow below. Time was ticking on and she started to panic. In her desperation she decided to attempt to create a sheet rope and pulled her bed apart to do so, but was stopped when the voice spoke again.

“Dr. Hooper. I see you must have realized we are not your guards. Escape is not possible. We have your companion subdued now. Please come out. I would hate to hurt him.”

Molly closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. There was no guarantee they had Sherlock, but in all probability, the guards were dead and they did indeed have her lover. She had no choice. Taking up her hat from the bureau, she placed it on her head and unlocked the door.

“Gentleman. Ladies,” Molly added after getting a better look at the now stoic black-clad group before her. There were three in the hall, all wearing masks, and after Molly stepped into the hallway, the other two emerged from Sherlock’s room, pushing him out before them. He had a bloody lip and looked dangerously angry, but was unharmed. Molly breathed a sigh of relief and looked toward the other three.

“I assume you have a plan,” she said coldly. One of the cultists stepped forward and bowed slightly.

“Yes.” It was the male voice who had spoken earlier. “You are coming with us.”

Molly scowled. “Where?”

“To Nocturnal.”

* * *

 

The journey took about two hours across the snowy wasteland that lay between the town and Askja. The Cult had taken three vehicles and made sure to separate Molly and Sherlock. They were taking no chances with their prisoners. Molly sat between two of the hooded cult members; she didn’t bother trying to think up an escape. They were going exactly where she had wanted to go anyway, just by another route. Escape could come after finding the Flagon.

As the mountain grew nearer and nearer, Molly could see that what she thought were snow-clouds was actually dark grey smoke spewing from the mouth of the volcano.  _ Isn’t this thing supposed to be dormant? _

Whatever lay in story for them, they were going to find out very soon. The caravan arrived at the base of the mountain only a few minutes later, and Molly and Sherlock were prodded out of their respective vehicles. They were still kept separate, but at the very least they could tell that the other was alright. They nodded to each other but the moment was very brief, for their captors then pushed them forward, toward a cave-like opening at the base of the volcano. Molly could see that it was a natural opening, but the walls seemed to have been refined and smoothed by human hands. 

Walking inside the mountain made Molly almost stop in awe.It was beautiful. There were electric lamps on the walls of the cave, and in their light, the walls sparkled from minerals and gemstones. What Molly thought was human intervention she quickly realized was past eruptions. They were in a lava tunnel.

“Definitely still active, then,” she murmured, and garnered a warning look from one of her captors. 

She watched Sherlock glance back at her and nod his head. She wondered what he was seeing and deducing.

The tunnel grew darker as they walked deeper into the mountain. The lamps on the wall were barely able to light the way. Molly didn’t think she had ever experienced such darkness. She finally understood the meaning of ‘pitch-black’.

After a while, she realized the tunnel was beginning to expand. The two captives soon found themselves in a huge, cavernous room that seemed to have its own source of light and heat, apparently from the very walls themselves. Molly brushed against the wall as she walked in and jumped back with a wince. It didn’t take her a moment to realize why the room was so warm. Looking closer, she could see the lava moving behind the thin rock wall. She had never seen anything so amazing.

In the center was a shrine with a black statue carved out of granite. It looked like a beautiful woman in long, flowing robes. The runes from the tablet covered the edges of the robes. Molly knew they said something and made a note to ask Sherlock. She saw at the bare feet of the woman, in the pedestal upon which she stood, an empty slot just about the size of Molly’s tablet. Next to the empty place was another tablet covered in silvery runes. She watched as a unit of the Cult moved rhythmically toward the statue. Molly and Sherlock were stopped abruptly by their guards just at the feet of the statue and they watched as the tablet was placed inside the pedestal. The entire statue suddenly lit up with rivers of silver and then faded into black again.

“Nocturnal can rest easily now.” The man who had spoken to Molly before at the hotel addressed the room. “She is whole again.” And with those words the entire room bowed before the statue.

“Molly,” Sherlock leaned down and whispered in her ear. The cult had finally allowed them to stand next to each other. “I think we should also get down.”

“What?” she looked at him, bewildered, but watched his eyes as they drifted back toward the way they came. Shadows moved against the walls, shadows with guns. She met Sherlock’s eyes and nodded. Together they slowly sank down to their knees. Just as they reached the floor, gunshots rang out and chaos flowed throughout the room.

The Cultists jumped to their feet and most were mowed down by the automatic weapons, but soon enough the Cultists’ own weapons blasted through the room. Molly found herself underneath Sherlock as they flattened themselves to the floor. He splayed himself protectively over her. Shouting and fighting went on around them for a few minutes before finally there was a lull.

“If any of you want to see your dear Nocturnal please continue to fight my men,” a horrifyingly familiar voice echoed through the cavern. “If you want to see daylight again, put down your weapons!”

For a full minute there was no reply, then the leader of the Cult spoke in Icelandic and the remaining live members of the cult dropped their knives and small guns. Molly could hear heavy booted feet moving about the cavern, maneuvering around the dead, as the newcomers picked up the Cultists’ weapons.

Two of those boots suddenly appeared in front of Molly and Sherlock, who still lay quietly on the stone floor.

“My dear Doctor Hooper and Mister Holmes. How enchanting to see you both again.”

Molly cursed under her breath. _Graf_. Sherlock got up slowly and helped her to her feet and face to face with their former Nazi captor.

“How did you find this place?” Molly couldn’t help but ask.

“Neither of you are as subtle as you would like to think you are. Oh, and your brother has a mole.” 

Graf smiled at Sherlock. “Pity for him he will never find out.”

“If you’re here, he knows and has probably already dealt with the problem,” Sherlock replied coldly, showing what Molly could only assume was familial protectiveness.

Graf shrugged. “It does not matter. Neither of you will make through the rest of the day. However, before I kill you, I do need to make use of you.” He motioned for them to follow, and with the new 

Nazi guards behind them, they had no choice. They moved through the carnage of the brief battle – the now captive cultists were being herded into one corner of the room – and stopped at the pedestal of Nocturnal.

“Mister Holmes,” Graf gestured to the second tablet. “I need you to read that tablet.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glanced at the feet of Nocturnal. “Alright.” And he began to read Molly’s tablet. Molly almost laughed, but the soft click that she heard from beside her stopped any laughter. Graf was pointing his sidearm at her.

“Sherlock,” she cleared her throat and he turned back. “I think he means the other one.”

“You both know very well I meant the other one,” Graf growled. “No games.”

Sherlock gave Graf a murderous look and knelt down to decipher the new tablet.

“Read it out loud,” Graf ordered.

“I’m getting to that,” Sherlock snapped. “Honestly, this entire thing is ridiculous. Nocturnal doesn’t exist. There is no magic Flagon.”

“Do you want to risk your archaeologist’s life on that assumption?” Graf mused. Molly winced as he pushed the gun into her side.

Sherlock looked to Molly, and she nodded, before starting the rhyme on the tablet aloud. He spoke quietly, but somehow the ancient tongue resounded around the cavern. Molly felt the room shake slightly as Sherlock continued and she looked at the group of Cultists. They were kneeling now and bowing to the statue. Their Nazi guards watched nervously, a few of shuffling around and throwing longing glances at the entrance to the cavern.

Molly looked back at the proceedings in front of her as Sherlock finished his recital and stood.

“You see?” he held his arms out and gestured around the room. “Nothing happened.”

As he finished speaking, however, the ground began to shake in earnest, and just behind the statue of Nocturnal rose a granite shrine. Graf, Molly, and Sherlock moved forward together and slowly approached the shrine as it emerged from its hiding place. The Flagon stood in the center, shining silver with ornate and disturbing designs and emerald jewels all around the cup. Lava flowed in a waterfall behind it, the only breach in the volcanoes walls. Molly almost couldn’t resist touching it, the Flagon was so beautiful. She even felt herself move forward to touch it but stopped herself just in time. She tugged on Sherlock’s arm and pulled him back, though he seemed less under the thing’s spell and more curious about its nature. Graf, on the other hand, eagerly grabbed it and held it triumphantly above his head.

“Graf! Put it back!” Molly exclaimed.

Graf simply ignored her as he walked over to his two prisoners. From behind, a couple of his minions grabbed the prisoners and forced both Sherlock and Molly to push their right hands out, palms upward. Before either one knew what was happening, Graf had sliced a cut into each of their palms. The minions then forced them to hold their palms over the Flagon, and Molly’s and Sherlock’s blood mingled as it dripped into the bowl. Molly winced as she was finally let go, and cradled her injured hand to her chest.  

“My brothers!” he addressed his men. “We finally hold the key to winning the war! The dead shall rise and join our ranks! Our Führer will be unstoppable!”

The men cheered, relaxed now that they realized nothing had happened. They rallied for their leader, who continued to speak on the glory of the Flagon; the Flagon that they hoped would bring the world to its knees.

“Time to go,” Sherlock murmured and took Molly’s uninjured hand. Slowly, quietly, while Graf was distracted they started to make their way to the exit. Their escape was short-lived, however.

“You two are so vexing, do you know that?” Graf’s voice came lilting over to them. Molly and Sherlock stopped and she huffed in frustration.

“You’ve got what you want, don’t you?” Molly called back angrily. “You don’t have to kill us!”

“I’m not going to kill you just yet,” Graf smiled and looked at the Flagon. Words appeared around the rim, in the same silvery script as was on the tablets. Only this time, Graf read the words aloud in his native tongue, which were somehow inscribed upon the cup.

The ground started to shake again and Nocturnal’s statue began to shine. The Nazi officer repeated the words over again and again. After a moment the Flagon also started to glimmer and shine. Graf soon finished his incantation and looked toward his prisoners.

“Now comes the good part,” he whispered in excitement. The ground around them had become covered in white fog and suddenly it was swirling violently. The Cultists and Nazis began to move as one out of the smoke, up near Nocturnal’s statue. Molly and Sherlock did the same. Shapes appeared in the fog, human-like. Graf had begun chanting again and the cultists had fallen to their knees before Nocturnal’s statue. The shapes all turned toward Graf and moved in his direction.

As they moved, Molly could make out actual features of the spectral shapes. She felt chills go up her back. They looked like the people who had just died, and there were two who bore an uncanny resemblance to the bodyguards Mycroft had assigned them.

“This isn’t possible,” she breathed, not believing her own eyes.

“Usually I would agree, but we are watching it, Molly,” Sherlock replied and he didn’t tear his eyes away from the parade of the undead that approached Graf.

She nodded slowly and as they continued to stare, frozen in place at the impossible, an intense anger swept over her. How dare Graf take advantage of the dead in such a way?

“We need to stop him,” she stated. “Before he ruins those poor souls.”

“How do you suggest we do that?” he asked as he looked around, pointedly focuses on all the armed Nazi soldiers.

Molly didn’t answer but desperately looked about. Her eyes kept being drawn back to the statue and how it grew in silvery brilliance as Graf continued to work whatever sorcery involved the Flagon. Her gaze drifted to the tablets which were shining just as brightly, and to the shrine, where the lava still flowed behind the Flagon’s former resting place. A thought occurred to her and she grasped Sherlock’s arm tightly.

“The tablets.”

“In any case, getting them out of the statue will distract Graf,” Sherlock said, knowing instinctively what Molly’s thoughts were. He glanced around at the people surrounding them. None were really paying any attention to Molly and Sherlock, as all were entranced by the sight of the ghostly figures now bowing before Graf.

With a silent exchange between them, Sherlock and Molly sprang into action. She charged for the statue, sliding into it and scrambling to pull the heavy tablet out of place, while Sherlock prevented anyone from going after her. Graf cackled wildly.

“Fools! Why are you trying to put off the inevitable?” he cried. “The dead shall rise and the world shall fall!”

“Shut up!” Molly shouted and with a final grunt of effort she managed to free the tablet, her tablet, from Nocturnal’s base. Almost immediately, howls came from the Cultists, and the misty figures of the dead started to flicker and wail. Graf turned around, furious, just as Molly pulled out the second tablet. The statue shuddered and the lava in the shrine flowed more quickly and thicker.

“Now you will certainly die!”

Sherlock skidded to place beside Molly and grabbed the other tablet. He hurled it at Graf, who only just managed to dodge out of the way. In doing so, he was forced to drop the Flagon. The cup spilled its scarlet liquid and bounced with a metallic crack right into Molly’s waiting hands. She picked it up gingerly. It vibrated at her touch and the jewels glimmered. Molly felt like she had been placed in trance; the only thing she knew was that she wanted to complete Nocturnal’s bidding.

“Molly! Destroy it!” Sherlock grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. The jerked movement awakened her from whatever spell she was under and she stepped out of the way just as Graf launched himself at her and made a grab for the Flagon.

They ran for the shrine to get away, but Graf ordered his underlings to capture them again. Before the Nazi soldiers could move, however, the Cultists of Nocturnal began to fight them once more.

“Usurpers! Traitors!” They cried as they killed the Nazi intruders. “Nocturnal will take your souls!”

Molly and Sherlock took the opportunity the cultists provided and hurried for the only thing available that could destroy the Flagon.

“I hope this works!” Molly hesitated briefly before tossing the Flagon back onto the Shrine and into the pool of lava that had now formed over its pedestal. Graf knocked the two of them aside to get to it before it disappeared, but could watch in horror as the Flagon slowly melted in the liquid fire.

“No!” He screamed and fell to his knees. The wailing of the ghosts grew louder and the entire room began to shake again, but this time, instead of abating, the walls began to crack and the magma hidden behind them peeked into the cavern.

Molly and Sherlock covered their ears from the unbearable wailing the rumbling of the mountain. Most of the people in the room were on their knees, the chaos too much to bear. Molly forced herself to stand, though and grabbed Sherlock’s hand.

“We’ve got to go!” she yelled. He grasped her hand tightly and the two of them ran unsteadily toward the exit. Rocks and boulders fell behind them as they ran, and the magma was finally released from its prison. Molly and Sherlock sprinted through the tunnel, neither one looked back. The orange color of sunset met them as they finally emerged from the tunnel, but they couldn’t rest.

“Look at the peak!” Molly exclaimed, and pointed to the top of Askja. The mountain’s peak was billowing with smoke and they could see flame lick the edges. The ground continued to shake violently and with a roar. it finally released its burden.

Molly and Sherlock glanced at each other and then sprinted for the nearest truck. After a brief struggle to find the keys, Molly turned the truck on and twisted the wheel as far as it would go as she pressed on the gas pedal. The truck screeched into action and surged forward. It wasn’t until Molly had reached the top of a large hill, miles from the volcano, that she stopped the truck. The two got out and collapsed to the ground as they watched the volcano erupt.

“I’m so glad you broke me out of that prison, Molly,” Sherlock remarked and smiled.

She glared at him but then grinned. “Me too.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Flagon of Nocturnal (Chapter 9)  
> By kaotic86


	10. Epilogue

“And you’re certain that Graf and the Flagon were disposed of?” Mycroft asked as he leaned back in his office desk chair.

 

“A volcano did erupt over him, Mycroft,” Sherlock remarked, crossing his legs in his chair opposite his brother. “He’s buried under hundreds of feet of ash.” It hadn’t been a full week since Molly and he had returned

 

“So is the Flagon.” Molly added from her place perched on the arm of Sherlock’s chair.

 

Mycroft looked at her, amused. “Do I detect disappointment in your tone, Dr. Hooper?”

 

Molly smiled and gave a shrug. “I am an archaeologist after all. The Flagon, or at least one of the tablets, would have been nice to have for the university museums. Next time I’ll just have to be more careful about preserving the artifact.”

 

Both the Holmes brothers then looked at the archaeologist in surprise.

 

“Next time?” Sherlock repeated.

 

“After our honeymoon, of course.” Molly grinned.

 

Mycroft choked and stood. “Well, I think that’s enough debriefing, thank you.”

 

Molly and Sherlock shared a bemused look and stood.

 

“Don’t worry, brother dear.” Sherlock picked up his hat from Mycroft’s desk. “You’ll get your invitation to the wedding within the month. It’s going to be at Mummy’s.” He tipped his hat to his brother’s mortified face and Molly laughed as they walked out of Mycroft’s office. Anthea smirked and congratulated them on their way out.

 

Outside of Mycroft’s officer, Molly turned to Sherlock. “Are you sure about his, Sherlock? About marrying me? It won’t be easy. I am a hopeless wanderer, after all.” She sighed with faux despondence.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and slipped an arm around Molly’s waist, drawing her close.  

 

“I wouldn’t have you any other way, Dr. Hooper.” He kissed the tip of her nose lightly.

 

She smiled, absolutely euphoric, and stood on her toes to kiss him. “Onto the next adventure.”

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank my amazing beta, Ellen, for her patience and hard work, without which I never would have been able   
> to complete this story. Thank you so much!!!
> 
> I also want to thank my artist, kaotic86 for her supernatural ability to draw what I was thinking for the characters and  
> the story. Your art is beautiful and perfect! Thank you!


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